s» 


•^faAJlhi     ir-rlil^ "i'rfi^:^i»«r^/A^tei.Wilg-ilA'.'<ifciiil^  •  i  t  ;m*~«.^j^ 


[HE]  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAT  [FORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


7' 


LIST  OF  SERIES. 


I.  HIDDEN  WINGS,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

n.  SOWING  THE  WIND,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

III.  SUNSHINE  AT  HOME,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

IV.  THE  PEACEMAKER,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

V.  NOT  ANYTHING  FOR  PEACE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

VI.  AFTER  A  SHADOW,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


THE    PEACEMAKER 


OTHER  STORIES. 


"I  don't  bflieje,  Grandpa,  you  ever  did  see  anything 
so  sweet." 


THE    PEACEMAKER, 


AKD 


OTHER    STORIES. 


BY    T.    S.    ARTHUR. 


NEW   YOKK: 

J  O  II  X     R.      A  X  I)  K  K  S  0  N, 


Entered,  according-  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  18<W, 
By  SHELDON  &  CO.. 

'n  Ihe  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


>  p 

CONTENTS. 


*  FA« 

THE  PEACEMAKER.     .......  9 

II. 

A  CRIPPLE  FOR  LIFE.        .......    27 

III. 

GOD  HELP  THE  POOR.         .......     38 

IV. 

As  YOU  HAVE  OPPORTUNITY.      ......    61 

V. 

COMPENSATION.    .        .        .        .        ••        •        .        .65 

VI. 

HE  LOST  HIS  REWARD •        .        .     83 

VII. 

GRANDPA  AND  HIS  DARLING 101 

(7) 

1117714 


CONTENTS. 


UNFOROOTTEN  WRONG.     .......    106 

IX. 

AS  WE  FORGIVE   OCR  DEBTORS.          .  •  •          •          .      120 

X. 

GIVING  TO  THE  POOR.      .••••••    136 

XI. 

His  OWN  ENEMY •       •        •        .    155 

XII. 
ONLY  WORDS ••••    167 

XIII. 

WHAT  Dip  HE  LEAVE.       .......    185 

XIV. 

THE  MOTHERLESS  EOT.    .......    196 

XV. 

OIL  ON  THE  WATERS  OF  PASSION 202 


XVI. 
AN  INDIGNATION  VISIT.    ....  .       .    219 


THE  PEACEMAKER, 

AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


I. 
THE   PEACEMAKER. 

"REPEAT  that  again,"  said  Mr.  Folsotn,  his 
face  losing  color. 

"His  words  were,  'lie  is  no  better  than  Ju 
das.'  " 

"  Meaning  me?" 

"  Yes,  you." 

"Plain  talk  that,  neighl>or  Willanl  !  "  Mr. 
Folsom's  eyes  had  in  them  an  angry  gleam. 

u  1  call  it  plain  talking,  sir.  It  strikes  me 
that  a  man  may  search  a  good  while  In-fore 
discovering  a  harder  saying.  To  compare  one 
willi  Judas,  is  going  to  the  top  noti  li  <;t  invec 
tive." 


10  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"He'll  be  sorry  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Folsom,  in 
a  threatening  manner. 

"If  he  had  spoken  of  me  after  that  fashion," 
replied  Mr.  Willard,  "  I  rather  think  he  would 
understand,  before  a  great  while,  what  is  meant 
by  the  words,  'repenting  in  dust  and  ashes.' 
Why,  just  think  of  it!  To  say  that  a  man  is 
no  better  than  Judas,  is  to  say  that  he  is  capa 
ble  of  doing  the  most  wicked  things.  Words 
have  a  meaning  in  them,  neighbor  Folsom  ;  and 
words  like  these  cannot  fail  to  leave  u  strong 
impression  against  you,  even  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  take  them  with  many  grains  of  al 
lowance.  Judas!  Why,  it's  terrible!  The 
more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  indignant  I  feel. 
Judas,  indeed  !  Judas  !  " 

"And,  I  suppose  he  had  something  to  say 
ul.  out  thirty  pieces  of  silver,"  remarked  Mr. 


"  O,  of  course.  Men  never  betray  one  an 
other,  except  to  gain  some  advantage." 

"Infamous!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Folsom. 

"You  may  well  say  infamous.  And  such 
tilings,  neighbor  Folsom,  should  not  be  lightly 


THE    PEACEMAKER.  H 

passed  over.  Every  man  owes  it  to  the  com 
munity,  as  well  as  to  himself,  to  punish  such 
slanderers  as  they  deserve.  I  trust  that  you 
will  make  thorough  work  in  the  present  case." 

"Trust  me  for  that,  neighbor.  I  have  stood 
between  trouble  and  William  Clark  more  tlian 
once  in  my  life,  because  I  pitied  the  man,  and 
thought  him  honest  and  well-meaning,  though 
weak  and  hasty.  But  now  I  will  be  the  trouble 
nearest  to  him.  He  needs  a  lesson,  and  I  will 
be  his  teacher." 

"And,  pray,  don't  spare  the  rod  or  ferule." 

"Not  I,"  answered  Mr  Folsom,  in  a  cruel 
tone. 

Here  the  neighbors  parted.  An  hour  or  two 
afterwards,  Mr.  Folsom  was  talking  with  an 
other  friend  and  neighbor,  whose  name  was 
Harding.  They  had  met  for  the  transaction  of 
business.  After  matters  were  arranged  to  mu 
tual  satisfaction,  Mr.  Folsom  said, — 

"  What  would  you  do  if  a  man  were  to  say 
that  you  were  no  better  than  Judas,  and  would 
betray  your  best  friend  for  thirty  pieces  of  sil 
ver  ?  " 


12  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"Make  him  take  back  his  words,  or  punish 
hitn  as  he  deserves." 

"How  punish  him?"  asked  Mr.  Folsom,  with 
some  betrayal  of  eagerness.  The  very  thought 
of  revenge  was  sweet  to  him. 

"  That  would  depend  upon  the  man's  charac 
ter  and  standing.  I  might  sue  him  for  slander. 
But  who  has  been  assailed  after  this  bad  fash 
ion  ?  " 

"1  have  been." 

«  You  ?  " 

"Yes."  Mr.  Folsom  closed  his  lips  firmly, 
knitted  his  brows,  and  looked  the  very  picture 
of  righteous  indignation. 

"By  whom?" 

"By  a  man  I  have  often  befriended  —  William 
Clark." 

"  Clark  !     Is  it  possible  ! " 

"  It  is  even  so." 

"  What  possessed  him  to  talk  in  this  way?" 

"  I  was  witness  in  a  case  where  my  evidence 
favored  his  adversary,  and  so  damaged  his  cause 
that  he  lost  it.  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  because  1 
think  he  should  have  gained  the  suit,  —  light 


THE    PEACEMAKER.  13 

being  on  his  side.     But  I  could  only  testify  ac 
cording  to  my  knowledge  in  the  case ;    and  it 
so   happened   that   nearly  all  the   knowledge  I 
possessed  came  to  me  from  Mr.  Clark  himself." 
"  And  so  he  called  you  a  Judas  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  A  hard  saying,  Mr.  Folsom." 
"It  is  ;  and  one  calculated  to  do  me  harm." 
"  So  I  should  think  —  much  harm." 
"  He  shall  suffer  for  it.     No  man  in  the  com 
munity  has  been  a  warmer  friend  to  Clark  than 
I.     He  is  an  indiscreet,  hasty  man,  as  you  know, 
and  never  gets  on  long  without  meeting  trouble 
in   some   shape.      Whenever  things   have   gone 
wrong  with  him,  he  has  come  to  me,  and  I  have 
taken   great   pains   to   help  him   into  the  right 

way  again.     And  now  to  turn  on  me  after  this 

* 

fashion  is  an  unpardonable  offence." 

'"It  looks  like  it,  certainly,"  responded  Mi:. 
Harding,  speaking  merely  from  his  external 
thought;  "and  I  think  it  will  do  him  good  to 
feel  that  outrages  of  this  character  must  not  go 
unpunished." 

Mr.    Harding   separated    from    his   indignant 


14  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

friend,  and  thought  but  little  of  what  had  passed 
between  them,  until  evening  found  him  in  a 
state  of  mind  different  from  that  which  had 
ruled  him  through  the  day.  As  memory  re 
called  one  incident  after  another,  he  came  to 
the  brief  conversation  held  with  Mr.  Folsom  on 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Clark's  alleged  slanderous 
remark,  and  was  turning  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind,  when  these  words  suddenly  came  into  his 
thoughts :  — 

"Blessed  are  the  peacemakers." 

An  instant  change  in  his  state  followed. 
"Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,"  he  repeated  to 
himself,  looking  at  the  divine  sentiment  with  a 
feeling  of  reverence. 

"  Did  I  pour  the  oil  of  peace  on  these  troubled 
waters?"  he  said  to  himself,  "or  only  meddle 
with  strife,  and  fan  the  flames  of  discord  ?" 

Mr.  Harding  was  far  from  being  satisfied  in 
his  mind.  He  had  counselled  punishment,  and 
not  forgiveness.  Instead  of  trying  to  heal  the 
breach,  he  had  only  made  it  wider. 

"Blessed  are  the  peacemakers."  He  could 
not  get  away  from  the  words.  They  seemed  aa 
if  spoken  especially  to  him. 


THE    PEACEMAKER.  15 

Not  far  from  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Harding  was 
1he  residence  of  Clark,  whose  free  speech,  as 
reported,  had,  with  cause,  excited  the  indigna 
tion  of  Mr.  Folsom.  Now  Clark  was  a  quick 
tempered  man,  who  often  said  things  in  the 
heat  of  passion  that  were  repented  of  in  cooler 
moments.  Mr.  Harding  knew  him  well,  and 
understood  him  thoroughly. 

"I  must  see  this  hasty,  indiscreet  man  to 
night,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  after  vainly  trying  to 
get  the  thought  of  him  out  of  his  mind.  "  There 
are  two  aspects  in  every  case,  and  as  I  have 
permitted  myself  to  express  an  opinion  on  this 
one  from  only  a  partial  view,  every  consideration 
of  justice  requires  me  to  look  upon  the  other 
side.  Instead  of  pushing  men  deeper  into  trou 
ble  with  their  fellow-men,  it  is  our  duty  to 
withdraw  them,  if  possible,  from  false  positions. 
\Ve  must  be  peacemakers,  not  abettors  of  dis 
cord." 

So  Mr.  Harding,  to  ease  an  unquiet  con 
science,  put  on  his  hat  and  stepped  round  to 
the  residence  of  his  neighbor. 

"  What's   the   trouble   between   you   and  Mr. 


16  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

Folsom?"  he  asked,  after  the  few  words  of 
greeting  were  over. 

"  There  is  no  trouble  between  us  that  I  know 
of.  Who  said  there  was  trouble?"  Clark 
looked  surprised. 

"Didn't  you  affirm  that  he  was  no  better  than 
Judas,  and  would  betray  his  friend  for  thirty 
pieces  of  silver?" 

"  Me  ?  "  There  was  unfeigned  astonishment  in 
the  man's  face. 

"Yes,  you." 

"Preposterous  !     Why  should  I  say  that?" 

"  He  was  a  witness  in  the  case  you  lost." 

Clark  looked  thoughtful,  and  a  little  serious. 

"Yes,  he  was  a  witness;  and  it  was  through 
his  testimony  that  I  lost." 

"And  you  were  angry  about  it,  and  in  the 
heat  of  passion  called  him  a  Judas." 

"I  was  angry,  but  never  called  him  a  Judas. 
Who  says  that  I  did  ?  " 

"I  cannot  speak  as  to  his  informant;  but 
somebody  has  repeated  this  offensive  language 
as  coming  from  you." 

"  That  somebody  has  lied  !  "  exclaimed  Clark, 


THE    PEACEMAKER.  17 

indignantly,  all  the  fire  of  his  quick  nature 
burning  suddenly  in  his  face.  "Mr.  Folsom 
has  been  a  kind  friend,  and  I  owe  him  gratitude 
for  many  services,  which  his  late  disservice 
does  not  cancel.  For  me  to  compare  him  with 
Judas  would  be  infamous." 

"Could  he  have  testified  differently  in  your 
case  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Harding. 

"Perhaps  not,"  was  admitted. 

"  He  was  under  oath." 

"Yes." 

"  Did  he  say  a  word  more  than  the  responsible 
position  of  a  witness  required  ?  " 

Clark  thought  for  a  little  while,  and  then  an 
swered,  — 

"  No  ;  I  presume  not." 

"Then  you  cannot  blame  him." 

"I  do  not  blame  him,  Mr.  Harding.  When  a 
man  loses  a  case  that  he  knows  to  be  a  just 
one,  and  through  the  evidence  of  a  man  from 
whom  he  expects  good  instead  of  evil,  it  is  hard 
not  to  feel  some  disturbance  —  hard  not  even 
to  feel  incensed  against  him.  I  was  blind  with 
indignation  for  a  little  while,  I  will  admit ;  and  I 
2 


18  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

may  have  spoken  with  indiscreet  freedom  of  Mi 
Folsom.     But  I  deny,  in  toto,  that  1  compared 
him  with  Judas." 

"  To  whom  did  you  speak  of  lam  ? "  asked 
Harding. 

"  Let  me  see ;  "  and  Clark  looked  into  his 
memory  of  the  circumstance.  "There's  Mr. 
Will'ird ;  he  came  among  the  first,  after  the 
jury  had  given  a  verdict,  to  s3Tmpathize  with 
me  in  my  loss.  '  It  was  the  testimony  of  Fol 
sorr*  that  ruined  your  case,'  said  he.  My  answer 
was,  that  I  had  believed  him  my  friend  ;  and  I 
added  something  about  saving  me  from  my 
friends,  and  I  would  take  care  of  my  enemies  — 
mere  words  such  as  we  utter  sometimes,  when 
excited,  without  considering  their  meaning." 

"And  you  arc  sure  nothing  was  said  about 
Judas?" 

"  Certain." 

"Think  again.  Recall,  if  posible,  everything 
that  passed  between  you.  We  may  get  at  the 
root  of  the  matter  here.  What  did  Willard 
reply  to  your  remark  about  saving  you  from 
your  friends?" 


THE     PEACEMAKER.  1M 

"Let  me  see."     Clark  thought  for  some  mo 
nieuts.      UO,  uo  \v  I  have  it:  'We  never  expect 
betrayal  at  the  haiid  of  a  friend.'     That  was  hu; 
reply." 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  this?"  asked  Mr. 
Harding. 

"  It  is  all  clear  now,"  said  Clark.  "  My 
answer  was,  'The  Judas  spirit  is  not  dead  yet.' 
But  I  never  meant  to  apply  the  words  to  Mr. 
Folsom.  It  was  a  mere  sentiment  in  response 
to  Willard's  remark." 

"So  I  can  understand.  And,  now  that  we  are 
down  to  the  bottom  of  this  matter,  suppose  we 
£o  together  and  see  Mr.  Folsom,  and  put  him 
right.  The  sun  has  gone  down  on  his  wrath ; 
but  it  should  not  rise  thereon." 

"  With  all  my  heart !  "  answered  Clark.  "  The 
quicker  a  false  impression  like  this  is  done  away, 
the  better  for  all  parties." 

At  the  time  this  conversation  was  going  on, 

Mr.  Willard  and  Mr.  Folsom  were  tosr^'     :•,  in 

the  house   of  the   latter.     They  v:>rs 

^f  a  benevolent  society.  "  i- 

nttee,   for  the  f 


20  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

submitted  to  them.  After  its  discussion  and 
settlement,  the  thoughts  really  uppermost  in  the 
mind  of  Mr.  Folsorn,  came  forth  in  words. 

"I've  scarcely  thought  of  anything  else  to 
day,"  he  said,  "  but  that  infamous  language  of 
Clark's.  I  only  wonder  that  you  kept  it  from 
me  so  long.  Slanderous  speeches  of  the  kind 
do  a  person  great  injury.  It  isn't  a  trifle  to  say 
of  a  man  that  he  would  betray  his  friend  for 
thirty  pieces  of  silver." 

This  was  giving  to  a  mere  inference  the  hard 
shape  of  a  fact.  Mr.  Willard  had  weakly  as 
sented  to  the  inference ;  and  now  it  had  taken 
the  form  of  an  allegation.  It  was  on  his  lips 
to  exonerate  Mr.  Clark  from  this  part  of  the 
offence,  but  he  lacked  the  manliness  and  honesty 
to  do  so. 

"I've  been  his  friend  in  a  great  many  in 
stances,"  Mr.  Folsom  went  on  in  his  blind  anger. 
"But  he  will  now  find  me  on  the  other  side.  I 
inherit  from  my  forefathers  some  decided  traits 
of  character  —  am  warm  as  a  friend,  but  bitter 
as  an  enemy.  And  so  he  will  find  me." 

"  K'e  was  excited  in  consequence  of  his  loss," 


THE     PEACEMAKER  3* 

said  Willard,  throwing  in  a  mollifying  sen 
tence. 

"  No  excuse !  No  excuse !  I  testified  only 
to  the  truth,  as  he  knew,  and  would  have  per 
jured  myself  if  I  had  made  any  other  state 
ment." 

"Yes,  yes.  No  blame  can  attach  to  you. 
Clark  would  have  done  the  same  if  your  posi 
tions  had  been  reversed.  It  was  an  outrage  in 
him." 

"And  shall  find  its  punishment,  or  my  name 
is  not  Folsom,"  was  the  revengeful  answer. 

"Two  gentlemen  wish  to  sec  you,"  said  a 
servant,  coming  to  the  door  of  the  room  ill 
which  they  were  seated. 

"  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"One  of  them  gave  his  name  as  Clark." 

"I  wouldn't  see  him,"  said  Willard,  his  face 
Hushing,  and  its  expression  changing. 

"Why  not?"  Mr.  Folsom  looked  at  him 
sharply.  A  suspicion  Hashed  through  his  mind. 

"I  wouldn't  hold  any  intercourse,  face  to  face, 
with  a  man  who  h;id  slandered  me  after  his 
fashion.  Send  him  t.>  your  lawyer. r 


22  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

Mr.  Folsom  reflected  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  said  to  the  servant,  — 

"  Show  the  gentlemen  up." 

"Hadn't  I  better  retire?"  said  Mr.  Willard, 
tiding. 

"You?  By  no  means!  Of  all  living  men, 
you  are  the  one  to  be  present  at  the  interview. 
Sit  down  again." 

Willard  sat  down,  looking  anything  but  com 
fortable.  Nothing  more  was  said  until  the  vis 
itors,  Clark  and  Harding,  entered  the  room. 
The  former  was  merely  recognized  by  a  distant 
nod,  while  the  latter  was  warmly  welcomed. 
Seats  were  offered  and  taken ;  after  which  came 
nearly  a  minute  of  silent  embarrassment  on  all 
sides. 

"  We  Hud  Mr.  Willard  here  very  opportunely," 
said  Harding,  speaking  first. 

"Why  so?"  asked  the  gentleman  referred  to, 
moving  in  his  chair  uneasily. 

"  Because  I  think  that,  through  you,  we  may 
get  at  the  real  merit  of  this  trouble  between 
two  men  who,  I  am  sure,  have  no  real  cause  to 
be  angry  with  one  another.  Mr.  Folsimi," — and 


THE     PEACEMAKER.  J 

the  speaker  turned  to  the  gentleman  now  ad 
dressed, — "  since  talking  with  you  to-day,  I  have 
felt  sure  there  must  be  sonic  mistake,  and  in 
order  to  satisfy  myself,  called  an  hour  ago  upon 
our  friend  Clark,  who  denies  having  used  the 
language  attributed  to  him." 

"He  cannot  deny  it,"  spoke  out  Mr.  Willard, 
in  a  firm  voice. 

"  What  did  I  say?"  asked  Mr.  Clark,  repress 
ing  the  excitement  he  felt,  and  looking  calmly 
at  Mr.  Willard. 

"Sometning  about  Judas,"  was  answered. 

"What  about  Judas?" 

Willard  did  not  answer  promptly,  but  showed 
considerable  disturbance. 

"You  said  Mr.  Folsom,  here,  was  no  better 
than  Judas,  —  didn't  you?''  lie  stammered  a 
little  in  his  speech. 

"Mo,  sir!"  was  the  emphatic  answer.  "JL>ut 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  did  say,  fur  1  remember  it 
with  great  distinctness.  I  was  stung  at  losing 
my  case.  ::nd  did  not,  for  the  moment,  feel  very 
kind  towards  Mr.  Folsom  here,  through  whoso 
testimony,  fairly  given  1  will  admit,  1  lost  my 


24  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

suit.  You  came  to  me,  and  said,  'It  was  tht, 
testimony  of  Folsom  that  ruined  your  case.' 
You  remember  that?"  And  he  looked  at  Mr. 
Willard. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  was  gruffly  answered. 

"No  matter.  I  remember  it  distinctly.  To 
this  I  said  something  about  saving  me  from  my 
friends,  and  you  answered,  'We  never  expect 
betrayal  at  the  hand  of  a  friend.'" 

"You  are  certain  of  that?"  Mr.  Willard's 
memory  was  clear,  as  the  warmth  of  his  coun 
tenance  showed. 

"  Positive  ! " 

"  And  then  what  did  you  say?"  asked  Willard. 

"  I  said,  'The  Judas  spirit  is  not  dead  yet.' " 

"There,  —  that's  just  it!  What  more  would 
you  have?"  And  the  speaker  looked  trium 
phantly  at  Mr.  Folsom. 

"Considerable  more,  to  make  out  the  ease  as 
it  stood  a  little  while  ago,"  said  the  latter, 
calmly.  "And  now,  what  of  the  thirty  pieces 
of  silver?" 

"As  1  live,  Mr.  Folsom."  replied  Clark,  "no 
euch  \vords  ever  passed  my  lips  !  And  if  any 


THE    PEACEMAKER.  2 

mail  so  alleges,  he  is  false  !  As  to  the  Judas 
part,  I  merely  gave  a  responsive  sentiment,  not 
for  an  instant  meaning  to  apply  it  to  you.  Thai 
such  an  application  might  be  made,  I  see ;  and 
no  one  regrets,  more  than  I  do,  that  it  has  been 
made.  Show  me  how  I  can  undo  the  wrong  you 
have  suffered,  if  any,  and  I  will  act  promptly." 

Mr.  Folsoni  at  once  gave  a  hand  to  Clark, 
saying,  —  „ 

"  I  comprehend  it  all.  Your  explanation 
covers  the  whole  ground."  Then,  extending 
his  other  hand  to  Mr.  Harding,  he  added,  with 
feeling,  — 

"  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers  !  " 

His  eyes  next  turned,  severely,  upon  the  al 
most  abject  Mr.  Willard  :  — 

"  And  for  him  who  stirreth  up  strife  among 
his  friends  and  neighbors,  the  contempt  of  good 
men  !  " 

"Sir!"  exclaimed  Willard,  rising,  "you  forget 
yourself." 

Mr.  Folsom  only  bowed  with  low  formality, 
but  kept  his  keen,  rebuking  eyes  steadily  lixcd 
on  the  others  face. 


26  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Willard,  moving  to 
wards  the  door. 

"  Good  evening,  sir,"  was  returned  coldly,  ,uid 
the  man  retired. 

"I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Folsom,  turning  to  Mr. 
Harding,  and  taking  his  hand,  "  that  we  had 
more  peacemakers  among  us,  —  more  men  who 
love  to  see  reconciliation  better  than  strife. 
This  setting  of  friend  against  friend  is  dreadful, 
and  comes  from  an  evil  spirit.  I  could  not 
help  rebuking  Willard  harshly,  for  my  indig 
nation  against  him  was  strong.  If  I  have  made 
of  him  an  enemy,  so  let  it  be.  I  would  have 
been  false  to  my  appreciation  of  his  conduct 
if  I  had  said  a  word  of  lighter  meaning." 


A    CRIPPLE    FOR    LIFE. 


II. 

A  CRIPPLE   FOR  LIFE. 

"HAVE  you  noticed  that  poor  little  fellow  on 
crutches  at  the  white  house  in  Marion  Street  ? " 
said  one  of  three  ladies  who  were  spending  an 
afternoon  together. 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  just  in  my  thoughts  to  speak 
of  him,"  was  answered.  "I  noticed  the  child 
yesterday.  What  a  sweet,  patient  face  he  has  I 
He  can't  be  more  than  ten  years  old." 

"  And  a  cripple  for  Irfe  !  "  said  the  third  lady. 

Her  two  friends  turned  their  eyes  upon  her 
with  looks  of  inquiry. 

"You  know  him?"  remarked  one  of  them. 

"O,  yes.  His  name  is  Albert  Owings ;  son 
of  Mr.  Edward  Owings,  one  of  the  best  men  iu 
our  town." 

"  Has  he  been  long  a  cripple  ?  " 

"  About  a  year." 

"How  did  it  happen?     Had  he  a  fall?" 


28  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"I  will  tell  you  about  it  if  you  care  to  listen. 
The  story  is  a  sad  one,  and,  but  for  its  lesson 
and  warning,  I  would  not  revive  it  now." 

The  two  ladies  drew  closer  to  the  speaker, 
and  she  went  on. 

"  Little  Albert  was  a  favorite  with  everybody 
who  knew  him.  He  had  a  sweet  temper,  and 
artless,  winning  ways,  from  the  first.  When  but 
three  years  old,  he  was  the  pet  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  But  nothing  seemed  to  spoil  him.  As 
he  grew  older,  he  did  not  become  rude  and 
boisterous  like  too  many  children  ;  and  yet  he 
was  full  of  life,  and  loved  to  romp  and  play  as 
well  as  any. 

"  Year  after  year  was  added  to  his  life.  The 
birthdays  came  and  went,  until  he  w;u«  nine 
years  old.  The  children's  birthdays  are  always 
kept  in  Mr.  Owings's  house.  I  am  intimate  with 
the  family,  and  was  one  of  the  few  outside 
friends  who  were  invited  to  drop  in  after  tea 
I  promised  myself  a  pleasant  evening,  for  I 
knew  the  charmed  circle  into  which  I  was 
going. 

"Jt  was  early  i»j  autumn,  and  the  days  were 


A    CRIPPLE     FOR    LIFE.  29 

growing  shorter.  Darkness  had  fallen  when  I 
stood  at  Mr.  Owings's  door.  I  found  the  family 
in  much  distress  and  alarm.  Albert  had  gone 
with  a  neighbor's  son  to  visit  a  friend  of  his 
mother's,  who  lived  half  a  mile  from  the  city, 
and  word  had  been  received  that  he  had  fallen 
from  a  tree,  and  was  too  much  hurt  to  walk 
home.  Mr.  O wings  and  his  mother  had  just 
left  in  a  carriage,  taking  the  doctor  with  them. 

"For  over  an  hour  we  waited  in  painful  anx 
iety.  Then  the  father  and  mother  returned, 
bringing  the  poor  boy  with  them.  A  bed,  oil 
which  he  was  lying,  had  been  placed  in  the 
carriage.  He  was  helpless,  and  in  great  suffer 
ing.  It  took  us  a  long  time  to  get  him  out  of 
the  carriage,  and  up  stairs  to  his  bed,  for  the 
slightest  movement  of  his  body  made  him  cry 
out  with  pain.  No  bones  were  broken,  but  the 
doctor  said  there  were  serious  internal  injuries. 
From  the  hips  down  he  was  paralyzed.  He 
could  move  his  arms,  but  not  his  legs. 

"O,  that  was  a  sad,  sad  night !  Albert's  suffer 
ing  was  so  great,  that  anodynes  had  to  be  given 
V*f"re  he  could  get  ease  or  sleep." 


30  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  ladies. 
"He  fell  from  a  tree,  you  said?" 

"  I  will  answer  your  question  as  nearly  as  I 
can  in  Albert's  own  words.  One  day,  about  a 
week  after  the  accident,  I  was  sitting  with  the 
poor  boy,  who  lay  helpless  in  bed,  free  from 
pain,  I  am  glad  to  say,  when  I  asked  him  to 
tell  me  just  how  it  all  happened.  A  slight 
color  came  into  his  pale  face,  and  a  look  I 
could  not  understand  into  his  eyes.  His  moth 
er,  who  was  sitting  by,  noticed  this  change  in* 
his  countenance. 

"'Tell  us  all  about  it,  my  son,'  she  said,  as 
she  leaned  over  him.  'I  don't  know  yet  just 
how  it  was.' 

"He  put  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  held 
her  face  close  to  his  for  over  a  minute.  On 
releasing  her,  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  wet,  and 
had  a  look  of  doubt  and  trouble. 

"'You  were  not  doing  anything  wrong,  I 
hope,  Albert,'  said  his  mother. 

" '  No,  ma'am,'  he  answered  quickly.  '  Nothing 
that  I  knew  to  be  wrong.  But  maybe  some 
body  else  was.' 


A    CRIPPLE    FOR    LIFE.  gi 

"'Who?' 

"Ho  did  not  reply,  but  looked  from  his  moth 
er's  face  to  mine  in  an  uncertain  way. 

"'Who  was  doing  wrong,   dear?'   asked  his 
mother. 

"'Mrs.  Kline,  may  be.' 

" '  How  ? ' 

" '  When  she  gave  me  that  glass  of  currant 
wine.' 

" '  A  glass  of  currant  wine  I  You  didn't  tell 
mo  of  that  before  ! ' 

" '  No,  ma'am.* 

"'Why,  Albert?' 

"'I  don't  know,  mamma.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
couldn't.' 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  sadness  of  his  large, 
bright  eyes  as  they  rested  on  his  mother's  face. 

"'Tell  me  all  about  it  now,  darling.  Don'c 
keep  back  anything.' 

"'I  won't  keep  back  a  word,  mamma,'  he  said. 
'It  was  just  this  way  that  it  happened.  We 
went  out  to  Mrs.  Kline's,  Willy  Lawson  and  I, 
is  you  said  we  might.  And  Mrs.  Kline  seemed 
»o  glad  to  see  us.  I  told  her  it  was  my  birth- 


32  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

day,  and  then  she  seemed  more  pleased,  and 
kissed  me,  and  stroked  my  hair,  and  patted  rny 
cheeks,  and  said  I  must  have  something  in  honor 
of  the  day.  I  didn't  know  what  she  meant 
until  she  brought  in  a  waiter  with  cakes  and 
three  glasses  of  wine.  "It  won't  hurt  you,"  she 
said.  "  It's  only  currant  wine.  I  made  it  my 
self."  So  I  took  one  glass  and  Willy  another. 
"  Here's  to  your  good  health,  and  many  happy 
returns  of  the  day,"  said  Mrs.  Kline,  taking 
the  other  glass  and  drinking.  We  drank,  too, 
and  ate  as  much  cake  as  we  wanted.  Then  we 
went  out  to  play.' 

"*Was  it  a  full  glass  of  wine?'  asked  Mrs. 
Owings,  a  choking  in  her  voice. 

"'Brimful,'  answered  the  boy. 

"'And  you  drank  it  all? ' 

"'Yes,  ma'am,  every  drop.' 

" '  And  what  then  ? ' 

"'O,  it  burnt  all  down  inside  cf  me  like  tire, 
and  made  my  face  red,  and  set  my  knees  trem 
bling.  It  got  up  into  my  head,  too,  and  made 
it  feel  so  large  and  strange  !  1  was  hot  all  over. 
So  I  went  down  t<>  the  spring-)ioi"=e  and  washed 


A    CRIPPLE    FOR    LIFE.  33 

my  face  iu  the  cool  water;  and  that  made  me 
feel  better.  We  sat  there,  Willy  and  I,  playing 
in  the  brook.  We  built  a  little  dam,  and  sailed 
bils  of  wood  and  bark  oil  the  water.  After 
a  while  Mrs.  Kline  came  out,  and  said  she  was 
afraid  we'd  get  our  clothes  wet,  and  muddy,  and 
told  us  there  was  a  chestnut  tree  in  the  woods 
back  of  the  house,  and  she  thought  the  burrs 
were  beginning  to  open,  and  drop  the  nuts.  So, 
off  we  ran  to  the  woods,  and  found  the  tree. 
But,  though  we  saw  the  great  bunches  of  chest 
nut  burrs  hanging  up  on  the  limbs,  not  a  single 
nut  could  we  find  on  the  ground.  We  threw 
stones  and  sticks,  but  didn't  knock  any  down, 
they  were  so  high.  "If  it  wasn't  such  a  big  tree 
I'd  climb  it,"  said  Willy.  "I'm  not  afraid/1  said 
I,  feeling  just  as  bravo  and  strong  as  if  I'd  been 
a  man.  So  at  the  tree  I  went,  Willy  helping 
me,  until  I  could  get  hold  of  the  lowest  limb 
and  pull  myself  up.  I  don't  know  what  made 
mo  do  it,  for  I  never  tried  to  climb  a  big  tree  like 
that  before  in  all  my  life.  I've  thought  about 
it,  since  lying  here,  ever  so  much,  and  I  think 
it  must  have  been  the  wine  that  made  me  do  it, 
3 


34  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

I  heard  papa  say  ouce  that  when  wine  was  in  the 
wit  was  out.  And  I'm  sure  the  wit  was  out  of 
my  head,  or  I'd  never  have  gone  up  that  chest 
nut  tree.  When  I  got  on  to  the  limb,  which 
was  almost  as  big  as  a  tree  itself,  I  felt  as  hot 
all  over  as  when  I  drank  the  glass  of  currant 
wine.  My  arms  and  legs  were  trembling,  and 
my  head  buzzing  and  turning  round.  I  had  to 
shut  my  eyes,  and  hold  on  to  the  limb  to  keep 
from  falling. 

"'After  a  while  I  felt  better,  and  then  stood 
up  on  the  limb  and  reached  to  one  above,  pull 
ing  and  scrambling  until  I  got  to  a  higher  place. 
Then  the  trembling  and  turning  in  my  head 
came  again,  and  I  had  to  hug  my  arms  about  a 
limb  to  keep  from  dropping  right  down.  I  was 
"way  up  now,  ever  so  far  from  the  ground,  as 
high  as  a  second-story  window.  Then  it  came 
over  me,  all  at  once,  how  I  was  to  get  down ; 
and  I  felt  so  scared  and  weak,  and  my  head 
went  round  so,  that  I  couldn't  hold  on.  One  of 
my  feet  slipped,  and  I  felt  myself  going.  O,  it 
was  dreadful !  I  didn't  know  anything  after  that, 
until  I  found  myself  in  bed  at  Mrs,  Kline's,  and 


A    CRIPPLE    FOR    LIFE.  35 

she  ciying  and  going  on ;  and  then  it  all  came 
hack  to  me.' 

"  We  sat,  Mrs.  O wings  and  I,  for  a  good  while 
after  the  child  had  finished  his  story,  not  speak 
ing  a  word,  until  he  said,  'I'm  sure  it  was  the 
wine,  mamma.  I'd  never  thought  of  climbing 
the  tree,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  wine.  Some 
how  I  wasn't  just  myself  after  I  drank  it.  But 
don't  be  angry  with  Mrs.  Kline  ;  she  wanted  to 
honor  my  birthday,  and  didn't  think  it  would 
hurt  me.' 

"  We  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  moments. 
Mrs.  Owiugs  tried  to  speak,  but  her  voice 
choked  in  the  effort.  Her  boy,  crippled  for 
life,  lay  before  her,  and  the  hand  that  had  struck 
him  down  was  the  hand  of  one  who  loved  him. 
It  had  been  lifted  in  kindness, — alas  !  what  mis 
taken  kindness  !  " 

The  lady  ceased.  Over  the  faces  of  her  two 
friends  there  fell  shadows  of  pain.  Both  of 
them  sat,  with  eyes  cast  down,  for  a  long  while. 

"  That  a  cause  so  light  should  work  so  sad  a 
disaster!"  said  one  of  them,  at  length,  si 

O         7 

deeply  as  she  spoke. 


30  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"A  cripple  for  life!  And  all  from  a  single 
glass  of  currant  wine,  offered  in  honor  of  his 
birthday!"  said  the  other,  echoing  the  sigh  of 
her  friend.  "Why  !"  she  added,  the  color  coin 
ing  suddenly  into  her  face,  and  then  as  suddenly 
fading  out,  "I  did  that  very  thing  to  a  dear 
little  nephew  only  a  week  ago !  And  now  I 
remember,  that  he  came  near  being  run  over  by 
a  horse  on  his  way  home ;  and  that  when  I  asked 
him  about  it,  he  said  he  couldn't  just  tell  how 
it  was,  but  he  kind  of  forgot  himself,  and  didn't 
think  about  taking  care,  as  he  always  did  when 
crossing  a  street.  It  never  came  to  me  until 
this  moment,  that  the  wine  had  confused  his 
little  brain." 

"If  it  has  power  to  confuse  the  brains  of 
strong  men,"  answered  the  lady  who  had  told 
the  story  of  Albert's  fall  from  a  chestnut  tree, 
"  how  much  more  the  weak  and  delicate  brains 
of  children  ! " 

"  What  a  warning  !  "  exclaimed  the  other.  "I 
will  uevc-r  give  even  the  lightest  wine  to  a  child 
again." 

"Men  as   well   as    children   have    been   made 


A    CRIPPLii    ^^x.    LIFE.  37 

cripples  for  life  through  a  glass  of  wine  offered 
by  a  friendly  hand,"  said  the  lady.  "  There  is 
no  safety  when  the  brain  is  stimulated  above 
its  healthy  action.  No  one  can  tell  the  moment 
when  life  or  limb  may  depend  on  the  cool  head 
and  steady  hand  ;  when  the  slightest  confusion 
of  mind  may  bring  terrible  disaster.  Let  us, 
then,  who  have  so  much  influence  over  the  cus 
toms  of  society,  set  our  faces  against  this  thing 
of  offering  wine  to  our  friends.  We  can  work 
a  great  reform  if  we  will.  Taking  this  poor 
crippled  child  as  a  text,  we  may  preach  temper 
ance  sermons  to  men,  women,  and  children  of 
such  force  that  none  can  withstand  us.  What 
say  you,  friends?" 

And  they  all  joined  hands,  promising  to  set 
their  faces  against  a  custom  so  full  of  danger. 
And  they  kept  their  word.  Many  bottles  of 
currant  wine,  and  blackberry  wine,  and  cherry- 
bounce,  were  emptied  on  the  ground  by  these 
ladies,  and  also  by  others  to  whom  they  preached 
their  temperance  sermons.  The  text,  whenever 
announced,  was  sure  to  gain  attentive  listeners, 
and  rarely  failed  to  work  conviction. 


38  THE    PEACEMAKER. 


III. 

GOD   HELP  THE  POOR. 

"  WHAT  a  terrible  night ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Creighton,  as  she  drew  aside  the  heavy  damask 
curtains,  and  looked  out. 

The  snow  had  been  falling  for  several  hours, 
and  the  air  was  yet  filled  by  myriads  of  flakes, 
that  whirled  in  wild  eddies  through  the  narrow 
streets,  or  came  in  rattling  gusts  against  the 
windows.  Great  drifts  were  piling  up  steadily 
against  doorways,  and  on  the  lee  of  corner 
houses,  and  in  all  places  where  some  barrier 
turned  the  strong  wind  aside  in  its  onward 
march.  From  a  high,  piping  treble,  down  to 
the  lowest  muttering  base,  the  tempest-voice 
ran  up  and  down  the  scale  ;  now  in  tones  and 
halftones;  now  in  chords;  and  now  in  shud 
dering  dissonance. 

Mr.  Creighton  came  and  stood  by  the  side  of 
his  wife,  at  the  window  of  their  luxurious  home, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  stormy  night. 


GOD    HELP    THE    POOR.  39 

"I  pity  those  who  are  compelled  to  go 
abroad,"  he  said, 

"And  those  who  have  no  homes,"  added  his 
wife. 

"  And  the  poor,  who  have  no  fire  in  their 
dwellings." 

"  No  fire,  — and  on  such  a  ni<?ht  as  this  ! "    Mrs. 

1  O 

Creighton  turned  and  looked  into  her  husband's 
face  with  an  expression  of  doubt,  fear,  and  pity. 
"  Surely,  none  are  in  this  extremity  ! " 

"Hundreds,  I  fear,  even  in  our  Christian 
city,"  replied  her  husband,  as  he  moved  from 
the  window,  and  sat  down  in  front  of  the  grate. 
"Hundreds,"  he  added  in  a  thoughtful,  con 
cerned  way.  "  With  everything  around  us  so 
warm,  comfortable,  and  luxurious,  it  is  difficult 
to  realize  the  fact,  that  many,  very  many,  are 
now  cold  and  hungry.  Poor,  sick  women,  and 
tender  children,  crouching  in  firelcss  rooms,  or 
by  hearths  on  which  the  last  red  embers  aro 
dying." 

"Don't,  husband,  don't!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Creighton,  lifting  her  hands,  and  turning  her 
face  away.  "I  shudder  at  the  bare  imagination 
of  such  things." 


40  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"If  we  shudder  at  the  imagination  of  such 
things,  what  must  it  be  to  suffer  the  reality?" 
said  Mr.  Creighton,  not  even  making  an  effort 
to  push  the  subject  fr<»m  his  thoughts. 

"  God  help  the  poor ! "  ejaculated  his  wife,  in 
a  tone  of  pity. 

"  Yes,  God  help  them  ! "  was  the  low,  earnest 
response. 

There  followed  a  silence  of  some  moments, 
when  Mr.  Creighton  said, — 

"  When  did  you  see  Mrs.  Bayle?  " 

"  Not  since  last  week." 

"  How  was  she  then  ?  " 

"  She  looked  pale  and  weak.  I  gave  her  some 
tea,  and  a  loaf  of  fresh  bread." 

"And  you  haven't  seen  her  since?" 

"No." 

"  When  was  it  we  sent  her  that  half  ton  of 
coal?" 

"  I  can't  remember.  But,  now  I  think  of  it, 
Hannah  told  me,  day  before  yesterday,  that  Mrs. 
Bayle  came  round,  when  I  was  out,  and  asked 
for  a  bucket  of  coal." 

"Did  she  get  it?" 


GOD    HELP    THE    POOR.  41 

u  Yes  ;  Hannah  gave  it  to  her." 

a  That  was  two  days  ago  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

Mr.  Creighton  sighed,  and  sat  looking  into 
(he  grate  for  nearly  a  minute  without  speaking. 

"I  feel  troubled  about  that  woman,  and  her 
little  children,"  he  said,  at  last.  "Just  think, 
if  they  should  be  without  food  or  fire  on  a 
night  like  this!" 

"  O,  that  can't  be  !  "  answered  his  wife. 

"It  is  possible,  Allie.  Such  things  have  been. 
Women  and  children  have  perished  with  cold, 
even  in  our  city." 

"Don't  talk  about  it.  You  give  me  the  heart 
ache." 

Mr.  Creightou  arose,  and  commenced  walking 
the  floor  in  a  disturbed  manner. 

"I  declare,  Edward,"  said  his  wife,  "you  have 
destroyed  all  our  home  comfort  for  the  evening 
by  these  dreadful  images  your  fancy  has  created. 
Let  us  be  thankful  for  the  good  we  have,  and 
show  our  thankfulness  in  its  enjoyment." 

Mr.  Creighton  did  not  answer,  but  kept  on  his 
movement,  back  and  forward,  across  the  room. 
He  was  thinking  of  pf**r  M***.  Baylo. 


42  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"We  must  finish  'A  Tale  of  Two  Cities'  to 
night,"  said  his  wife,  taking  up  a  volume.  "Sit 
down,  Edward,  and  I  will  read.  We  are  at  the 
storming  of  the  Bastile." 

But  Mr.  Creighton  did  not  pause  in  his  rest 
less  walk.  The  reading  began,  and  was  contin 
ued  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 

"  What  a  wild,  fearful  picture ! "  said  Mrs. 
Creighton,  letting  the  volume  fall  into  her  lap. 
"Such  word-painting  is  wonderful." 

She  looked  up  at  hor  husband,  and  saw,  at  a 
glance,  that  he  had  not  been  listening. 

"I  don't  believe,"  she  said,  in  a  slightly  an 
noyed  tone,  "that  you  have  heard  a  single  page 
that  I  have  been  reading." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Allie,  I  don't  think  I  have," 
was  frankly  answered. 

"Not  very  complimentary  to  me  or  the  au 
thor." 

"On  the  contrary,  Allie,  I  acknowledge  my 
interest  in  both.  But  just  now  I  can  think  of 
nothing  else  but  Mrs.  Bayle  and  her  children." 

"We  cannot  help  them  to-night,  Edward. 
The  storm  is  too  wild  for  any  one  to  go  abroad. 


GOD    HELP    THE   POOR.  41 

Leave  them  in  the  hands  of  God.  He  will  take 
care  of  them." 

"How  will  he  take  care  of  them?" 

Mr.  Creighton  stood  still,  and  looked  stead 
ily  into  his  wife's  face.  Her  eyes  fell  beneath 
his  glance  of  earnest  interrogation. 

"How  will  God  take  care  of  them,  Allie,  if 
they  are  without  fuel  and  food  to-night?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  added,  — 

"Not  by  sending  coal  and  bread  through  super 
natural  agencies,  but  by  putting  it  into  the  heart 
of  some  human  being  to  go  to  their  succor. 
When  you  said,  'God  help  the  poor!'  the 
thought  of  Mrs.  Bayle  and  her  children  came 
instantly  into  my  mind,  and  I  cannot  put  it  away. 
I  must  see  to  them  this  night." 

"O,  no,  no,  Edward!  You  cannot  go  out  in 
such  a  dreadful  storm." 

As  if  to  give  force  to  her  words,  the  tempest 
shrieked  wildly,  and  the  fast-falling  snow  drove 
its  fine  crystals  rattling  against  the  windows. 
Mr.  Creightou  pushed  aside  the  curtain  and 
looked  out.  The  whirling  flakes  filled  the  air 
like  a  cloud.  He  could  hardly  see  across  the 
street. 


44  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"You  mustn't  think  of  going  out,  Edward,' 
said  his  wife,  as  she  came  to  his  side,  and  drew 
her  arms  around  him. 

"Alice,  you  said  just  now,  'God  help  the 
poor  ! '  and  spoke  from  genuine  pity.  He  can 
not  help  them,  except  by  human  hands.  I  feel 
so  strongly  that  my  hands  are  needed  for  help 
to-night,  that  1  could  not  hold  back  were  the 
storm  twice  as  violent.  I  have  warm  garments 
to  protect  me  from  the  cold.  I  have  health, 
strength,  and  a  stout  heart  in  humanity's  cause, 
I  trust.  Allie,  I  must  go.  No  sleep  could 
weigh  down  my  eyelids  to-night  if  I  remained 
in  uncertainty  about  this  poor  woman  and  her 
children." 

And  resolutely  putting  aside  all  remonstrances, 
Mr.  Creighton  prepared  himself  to  go  out.  On 
passing  into  the  street,  the  gust  swept  fiercely 
into  his  face,  taking  his  breath  for  a  moment,  and 
causing  him  to  stagger  back  several  paces.  But, 
recovering  himself,  he  leaned  a  little  forward, 
bracing  to  the  wind,  and  plunged  away  through 
snow-drifts  that  half  buried  him  at  times.  The 
small  tenement  in  which  Mrs.  Bayle  lived  stood 


GOD    HELP    THE    POOR.  45 

several  squares  distant,  in  a  narrow  court. 
Thither  he  made  his  way,  as  rapidly  as  he  could 
move  through  all  the  manifold  obstructions  that 
retarded  his  progress.  He  found  the  court 
almost  blocked  up  with  snow,  which  the  wind 
had  swept  from  the  roofs  above,  and  piled  up  in 
the  narrow  space  between  the  houses.  On  gain 
ing  the  one  in  which  Mrs.  Bayle  lived,  he  saw 
no  lights  in  the  windows,  though  the  shutters 
were  open.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  door,  and 
pushed  it  open.  All  was  silent  within.  He 
spoke,  but  no  voice  answered,  and  there  came 
no  sound  to  his  ears.  Then,  going  out  quickly, 
he  shut  the  door,  and,  crossing  the  court, 
knocked  where  a  light  gleamed,  out  from  a 
window. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "     It  was  a  woman's  voice  thai 
called. 

He  knocked  agai,u. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  same  voice. 

Mr.    Creightoii  pushed    open   the    door,    and 
entered   a  small   room,  in    which   a   woman   sat 

She  was  alone. 
Excuse  my  intrusion,"  he  said,  noticing  thai 


46  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

bis  appearance  surprised  and  startled  her.  "But 
I  want  to  ask  about  a  Mrs.  Bayle  who  lives  in 
this  court.  Have  you  seen  her  to-day?" 

"No,  sir;  I  don't  think  I've  seen  her  around 
to-day,"  answered  the  woman. 

"  She  lives  nearly  opposite  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"It's  all  dark  there,"  said  Mr.  Creighton.  "I 
opened  the  door  and  spoke,  but  no  one  an 
swered." 

"I  hope  she  isn't  sick  or  dead,"  remarked  the 
woman,  with  some  concern  of  manner.  "  I  don't 
know  what  would  become  of  her  four  little 
children." 

"We  must  see  after  them,"  said  Mr.  Creigh 
ton,  in  a  decided  way.  "Will  you  let  me  have 
a  candle,  and  some  matches?" 

"Yes,  sir.H  And  the  woman  laid  down  her 
work. 

"  And  go  over  with  me  ?  " 

''Yes,  sir,"  Then  she  went  to  the  stairs,  and 
called,  "Jake,  come  down  here !  A  gentleman's 
culled  to  see  about  Mrs.  Bayle,  and  I'm  going 
ov<  r  there  wilt*  him." 


GOD     HELP    THE     POOR.  47 

The  rough  voice  of  a  imm  answered  to  this 
summons,  and  some  heavy  feet  were  heard  mov 
ing  on  the  floor  above.  Before  their  owner 
made  his  appearance,  however,  Mr.  Creighton 
and  the  woman  were  across  the  court. 

On  lighting  a  caudle  in  the  chilly  room  which 
they  had  entered,  they  saw  only  a  table,  two 
old  chairs,  and  the  black,  fireless  stove  on  the 
hearth. 

"  Mrs.  Bayle  ! "  called  the  woman,  going  to 
the  stairs  that  led  to  the  single  room  above. 
But  no  answer  came. 

"  We  must  go  up,"  said  Mr.  Creighton.  And 
they  passed  to  the  chamber. 

"Save  us!"  exclaimed  his  companion,  as  she 
held  up  the  wavering  candle.  "  They're  all 
here  ! " 

As  she  spoke,  the  light  fell  upon  a  woman's 
white,  deathly  face.  She  was  lying  on  a  bed 
with  such  scanty  covering  that  the  chill  air  could 
scarcely  have  failed  to  reach  her  vitals.  The 
forms,  but  not  the  faces,  of  three  children  were 
seen  also. 

"Mrs.  Bavle  !''     This  time  the  somi'l  reached 


48  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

her  dull  senses,  and  she  opened  her  eyes,  that 
shone  glassy  in  the  light. 

"Are  you  sick,  Mrs.  Bayle?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  faint  answer. 

The  children,  half  awake  from  cold,  now 
pushed  up  their  heads  from  beneath  the  cover 
ing,  and  one  of  them  said,  anxiously,  — 

"  Ain't  we  going  to  have  any  supper  to-night, 
mamma  ?  " 

A  great  sob  came  up  at  this  from  the  sudden 
ly  touched  heart  of  Mr.  Creighton. 

"Yes,  you  shall  have  your  supper  to-night," 
answered  the  woman.  "Lie  still,  and  keep 
warm  for  a  little  while." 

"I  can't  keep  warm,"  answered  the  child.  "O 
dear  !  it's  so  cold  !  " 

Setting  down  the  caudle,  the  woman  said,  — 

"I'll  run  over  and  get  a  comfortable,  and  Jake 
shall  bring  a  bucket  of  coal,  and  make  a  fire  in 
the  stove  down  stairs,  that  will  soon  warm  the 
house."  And  she  hurried  away.  In  a  few 
moments  she  was  back  again  with  thick  cover 
ing  for  the  bed,  which  she  laid  over  the 'woman 
and  her  children,  and  as  her  briskly-moving  hand 


GOD    HELP    THE     POOR.  49 

tucked  ill  the  warm  comfortable  all  around,  she 
said,  — 

"Now  lie  still  until  we  get  a  fire  made,  and 
your  supper  ready." 

"God  help  the  poor!"  said  Mr.  Creighton, 
with  tear-filled  eyes,  as  he  went  down  stairs. 
The  woman  heard  him,  for,  in  his  emotion,  he 
had  spoken  aloud,  and  she  answered, — 

u  A  great  many  people  say  that,  sir ;  and  yet 
no  help  comes.  It  doesn't  put  bread  into  chil 
dren's  mouths.  It  doesn't  feed  the  hungry  and 
clothe  the  naked,  sir." 

"But  God  may  inspire  willingness  in  human 
hearts,"  replied  Mr.  Creighton,  "as  he  has  done 
to-night,  and  thus  help  them.  And  but  for  this 
willingness  which  he  gives,  no  help  would  come. 
So,  I  say  still,  God  help  the  poor! " 

"He  must  have  put  it  into  your  heart,"  said 
the  woman;  "for  if  you  hadn't  come,  these  poor 
souls  might  have  perished  before  daylight." 

"Perhaps,"    answered    Mr.    Creighton,    as    he 
took   out   his   purse.     Then   adding,    "Here   is 
money  for  Mrs.  Bayle.     Will  you  ,see  that  she 
IMS  everything  needed  to-night?" 
4 


fc£  THE     PEACEMAKKK. 

"I  will,  sir,  as  if  she  were  my  own  sister," 
replied  the  woman,  with  an  earnestness  of  tone 
that  left  Mr.  Creighton  in  no  doubt. 

"And  so,  God  help  the  poor!"  said  he,  as  he 
passed  out  again  into  the  stormy  night,  and  took 
his  way  homeward. 

"O,  Edward!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Creighton,  as, 
after  more  than  half  an  hour  of  anxious  sus 
pense,  her  husband  came  in  with  a  quick  step, 
bright  eye,  and  ruddy  countenance.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  are  home  again  !  It  has  stormed  hard 
er  than  ever  since  you  left.  How  did  you  mid 
Mrs.  Bayle?" 

"Without  food,  fire,  or  light,"  he  answered. 
"I  think  death  would  have  found  her  and  her 
children,  mayhap,  if  God  had  not  sent  me  to 
their  relief.  It  is  God  who  really  helps  the 
poor,  Allie.  We  are  only  the  instruments  in  his 
hands.  May  we  always  be  willing!" 

"As  you  have  been  to-night,"  said  Mrs. 
Creightou,  with  a  new  impression  of  her  hus 
band's  character  in  her  heart.  And  she  laid  he! 
hand  in  his,  and  looked  lovingly  into  a  face  that 
was  all  alive  with  manly  feeling. 


AS    YOU    HAVE     OPPORTUNITY.          51 


IV. 

AS  YOU  HAVE  OPPORTUNITY. 

MR.  FRAZIER  sat  reading  in  his  counting- 
room.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  piece  of 
interesting  news,  when  a  lad  came  to  the  door 

O  ' 

and  said,  — 

"Do  you  want  a  boy,  sir?" 

Without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  paper,  Mr. 
Frazier  answered  "No,"  to  the  application,  and 
in  rather  a  rough  way. 

Before  the  lad  reached  the  street,  conscience 
had  compelled  the  merchant  to  listen  to  a  re 
buking  sentence. 

"You  might  have  spoken  kindly  to  the  poor 
boy,  at  least,"  said  Conscience.  "This  is  AH 
opportunity." 

Mr.  Frazier  let  the  paper  fall  from  belore  nis 
eyes,  and  turned  to  look  at  the  lad.  lie  was 
smalt, —  not  twelve  years  old,  to  appearance, — 
poorly  attired,  but  clean.  The  merchant  tapped 


52  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

against  one  of  the  windows  in  the  counting- 
room,  and  the  boy  glanced  back  over  his 
shoulder.  A  sign  from  the  merchant  caused 
him  to  return. 

"What  did  you  say  just  now?" 

"Do  you  want  a  boy,  sir?"  The  lad  repeated 
the  words  he  had  spoken,  hesitatingly,  a  few 
moments  before. 

Mr.  Frazier  looked  at  him  with  a  suddenly 
awakened  interest.  He  had  a  fair,  girlish  face .; 
dark  brown  eyes  and  hair ;  and  though  slender 
and  delicate  in  appearance,  stood  erect,  and 
with  a  manliness  of  aspect  that  showed  him 
to  be  already  conscious  of  duty  in  the  world. 
But  there  did  not  seem  to  be  much  of  that 
stuff  in  him  that  is  needed  for  the  battle  of  life. 

"Take  a  chair,"  said  Mr.  Frazier,  an  invol 
untary  respect  for  the  lad  getting  possession  of 
his  mind. 

The  boy  sat  down,  with  his  large,  clear  eyes 
fixed  on  the  merchant's  face. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"I  was  twelve,  sir,  last  month,"  replied  the  boy. 

u  What  splendid  eyes  !  "  said  the  merchant  to 


AS    YOU     HAVE     OPPORTUNITY.          53 

himself.  "And  I've  seen  them  before.  Soft, 
dark,  and  lustrous  as  a  woman's  !  " 

Away  back  in  the  past  the  thoughts  of  Mr. 
Frazier  went,  borne  on  the  light  from  those 
beautiful  eyes,  and  for  some  moments  he  forgot 
the  present  in  the  past.  But  when  he  came 
back  into  the  present  again,  he  had  a  softer  heart 
towards  the  stranger  lad. 

"You  should  go  to  school  for  a  year  or  two 
longer,"  he  said. 

"  I  must  help  my  mother,"  replied  the  lad. 

"Is  your  mother  very  poor?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  she's  sick." 

The  lad's  voice  shook  a  little,  and  his  soft, 
woman's  eyes  grew  brighter  in  the  tears  that 
filled  them. 

Mr.  Frazier  had  already  forgotten  the  point 
of  interest  in  the  news  after  which  his  mind  was 
searching  when  the  boy  interrupted  him. 

•<I  don't  want  any  one,"  said  Mr.  Frazier, 
"but  may  be  I  might  speak  a  good  word  for  you, 
and  that  would  help,  you  know.  I  think  you 
would  make  an  honest,  useful  lad.  But  you 
are  not  strong." 


54  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"  O,  yes,  sir,  I'm  strong ! "  And  the  boy 
stood  up  in  a  brave  spirit. 

The  merchant  looked  at  him  Avith  a  steadily 
increasing  interest. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"  Charles  Leonard,  sir." 

There  was  an  instant  change  in  the  merchant's 
manner,  and  he  turned  his  face  so  far  away  that 
the  boy's  eyes  could  not  see  its  expression.  For 
a  long  time  he  sat  still  and  silent,  —  so  long  that 
the  boy  wondered. 

"Is  your  father  living?"  Mr.  Frazier  did  not 
look  at  the  boy,  but  still  kept  his  face  away. 
His  voice  was  low,  and  not  very  even. 

"  No,  sir.     He  died  four  years  ago." 

"  Where  ?  "    The  voice  was  quicker  and  firmer. 

"In  London,  sir." 

"  How  long  since  you  came  to  America?" 

"Two  years." 

"Have  jou  been  in  this  city  ever  since?" 

"No,  sir.  We  came  here  with  my  uncle  a  yeai 
ago.  But  he  died  a  month  after  our  arrival.'' 

u  What  was  your  uncle's  name  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Hoyle,  sir." 


AS    YOU    HAVE    OPPORTUNITY.  55 

There  came  another  long  silence,  in  which  the 
lad  was  not  able  to  see  the  merchant's  counte 
nance.  But  when  he  did  look  at  him  again 
there  was  such  a  new  and  kind  expression  in  the 
eyes,  which  seemed  almost  to  devour  his  fiice, 
that  he  felt  an  assurance  in  his  heart  that  Mr. 
Frazier  was  a  good  man,  and  would  be  a  friend 
to  his  mother. 

"Sit  there  for  a  little  while,"  said  Mr.  Fra 
zier  ;  and  turning  to  his  desk,  he  wrote  a  brief 
note,  in  which,  without  permitting  the  lad  to 
see  what  he  was  doing,  he  enclosed  two  or  three 
bank  bills. 

"Take  this  to  your  mother,"  he  said,  handing 
the  note  to  the  lad. 

"You'll  try  and  get  me  a  place,  sir  —  won't 
you?"  The  boy  lifted  to  him  an  appealing 
look. 

"O,  yes.  You  shall  have  a  good  place.  But 
stay  ;  yoi  haven't  told  me  where  you  live/' 

"At  No.  —  Melon  Street,  sir." 

"Very  well."  Mr.  Frazier  wrote  down  the 
street  and  number.  "And  now  take  that  note 
to  your  mother." 


56  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

The  merchant  did  not  resume  his  newspaper 
after  the  lad  departed.  He  had  lost  all  icterest 
in  its  contents.  For  a  long  time  he  sat,  with 
his  hand  shading  his  face,  so  that  no  one  saw 
its  expression.  If  spoken  to  on  any  matter,  he 
answered  briefly,  and  with  nothing  of  his  usual 
interest  in  business.  The  change  in  him  was 
so  marked,  that  one  of  his  partners  asked  if  he 
were  not  well. 

"I  feel  a  little  dull,"  was  evasively  answered. 

Before  his  usual  time  Mr.  Frazier  left  the 
store  and  went  home.  As  he  opened  the  door 
of  his  dwelling,  the  distressed  cries  and  sobbings 
of  a  child  came  with  an  unpleasant  shock  upon 
his  ears.  He  went  up  stairs  with  two  or  three 
long  strides,  and  entered  the  nursery,  from 
which  the  cries  came. 

"What  is  the  matter,  darling?"  he  said,  as 
he  caught  the  weeper  in  his  arms.  "  What  ails 
my  little  Maggy?" 

««O,  papa!  papa!"  sobbed  the  child,  clinging 
to  his  neck,  and  laying  her  wet  face  close  to 
Lis. 

"Jane,"    said    Mr.    Fra/ier,    looking    at     the 


AS    YOU     HAVE    OPPORTUNITY.          57 

nurse,  and  speaking  with  some  sternness  of 
manner,  "why  is  Maggy  crying  in  this  man 
ner?" 

The  girl  looked  excited,  but  pale. 

"  She's  been  naughty,"  was  her  answer. 

"No,  papa!  I  ain't  been  naughty,"  said  the 
child,  indignantly.  "I  didn't  want  to  stay  here 
all  alone,  and  she  pinched  me  and  slapped  me 
so  hard.  O,  papa ! "  And  the  child's  wail 
rang  out  again ;  and  she  clung  to  his  neck, 
sobbing. 

"Has  she  ever  pinched  and  slapped  you  be 
fore?"  asked  the  father. 

"  She  does  it  'most  every  day,"  answered  the 
little  girl. 

"Why  haven't  you  told  me?" 

•  She  said  she'd  throw  me  out  of  ihe  window 
if  1  told  !  O,  dear !  O,  dear !  Don't  let  her 
do  it,  papa  !  " 

"  It's  all  a  lie  !"  exclaimed  the  nurse,  passion 
ately. 

"Just  look  at  my  poor  leg,  papa."  The  child 
said  this  in  a  hushed  whisper,  with  her  lips  laid 
close  to  her  father's  ear. 


58  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

Mi.  Frazier  sat  down,  and  baring  the  child's 
log  to  the  hip,  saw  that  it  was  covered  with  blue 
and  greenish  spots  all  above  the  knee ;  there 
were  not  less  than  a  dozen  of  these  disfiguring 
marks.  He  examined  the  other  leg,  and  found 
it  in  the  same  condition. 

Mr.  Frazier  loved  that  child  with  a  deep  ten 
derness.  She  wras  his  all  to  love.  Her  mother, 
between  whom  and  himself  there  had  never  been 
any  true  heart-sympathy,  died  two  years  before ; 
and  since  that  time  his  precious  darling  —  the 
apple  of  his  eye  —  had  been  left  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  hired  nurses,  over  whose  conduct  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  have  any  right  obser 
vation.  He  had  often  feared  that  Maggy  was 
neglected, — often  troubled  himself  on  her  ac 
count, —  but  a  suspicion  of  cruelty  like  this, 
never  came  into  his  imagination  as  possible. 

Mr.  Frazier  was  profoundly  disturbed ;  but 
even  in  his  passion  he  was  calm. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  sternly,  "I  wish  you  to  leave 
the  house  immediately  !  " 

"  Mr.  Frazier  —  " 

"  iSiiencc  !  "     He  showed  himself  BO  stern  and 


AS    YOU    HAVE     OPPORTUNITY.          59 

angry,  even  in  his  suppressed  utterance  of  the 
word,  that  Jane  started,  and  left  the  room  in 
stantly. 

Mr.  Frazier  rang  the  bell,  and  to  the  waiter 
who  answered  it  said,  — 

"  See  that  Jane  leaves  the  house  at  once.  I 
have  discharged  her.  Send  her  trunk  wherever 
she  may  wish  it  taken.  Here  is  the  money  that 
is  due.  I  must  not  see  her  again." 

As  the  waiter  left  the  room,  Mr.  Frazier 
hugged  his  child  to  his  heart  tightly  again,  and 
kissed  her  with  an  eagerness  of  manner  that  was 
unusual  with  him.  He  was  usually  fond,  but 
quiet,  in  his  caresses.  Now,  the  sleeping  im 
pulses  of  a  strong  heart  were  all  awake  and  active. 

In  a  small,  back  chamber,  sat  a  pale,  sweet- 
faced,  patient-looking  woman,  reading  a  letter 
which  had  just  been  left  for  her  by  the  post-man. 

"Thank  God  !"  she  said,  as  she  finished  read 
ing  it,  and  her  soft,  brown  eyes  were  lifted  up 
ward.  "It  looked  very  dark,"  she  murmured, 
"but  the  morning  has  broken  again." 

A  light,  quick  step  was  on  the  stairs,  and  the 
door  was  pushed  hastily  open. 


60  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"  Charles,  dear  !  "^ 

The  boy  entered  with  an  excited  countenance. 

"  I'm  going  to  get  a  place,  mother  !  "  he  cried 
to  her,  the  moment  his  feet  were  inside  the 
door. 

The  pale  woman  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  her  boy.  He  came  quickly  to  her  side. 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  your  getting  a 
place  now,  Charles.  We  shall  go  back  to  Eng 
land." 

"O,  mother!"  The  boy's  face  was  all  aglow 
with  sunbeams. 

"Here  is  a  letter  from  a  gentleman  in  New 
York,  who  says  that  he  is  directed  by  your 
uncle  Wilton  to  pay  our  passages  to  England,  if 
we  will  return.  God  is  good,  my  son.  Let  us 
be  thankful!" 

Charles  now  drew  from  his  pocket  the  note 
which  Mr.  Frazier  had  given  him,  and  handed  it 
to  his  mother. 

"What  is  this?"  she  asked. 

"The  gentleman  who  promised  to  get  me  a 
place  told  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

The  woman  broke  the  seal.     There  wore  three 


1  fj    YOU    HAVE    OPPORTUNITY.          61 

bank  bills,  of  ten  dollars  each,  enclosed,  and 
this  brief  sentence  written  on  the  sheet  of 
paper : — 

"  God  sent  your  son  to  u  true  friend.  Take 
courage.  Let  him  come  to  me  to-morrow." 

"Who  gave  you  this?"  she  asked.  Her  pale 
face  was  growing  warm  with  sudden  excitement. 

"A  gentleman.  But  I  don't  know  who  he 
nyas.  I  went  into  a  great  many  stores  to  ask  if 
they  didn't  want  a  boy,  and  at  last  came  to  the 
DUO  where  the  gentleman  was  who  sent  you  this 
letter.  He  spoke  roughly  to  me  at  first,  and 
then  called  me  back  and  asked  me  who  I  was, 
and  about  my  mother.  I  told  him  your  name, 
and  how  father  had  died,  and  you  were  sick. 
Then  he  sat  a  good  while,  and  didn't  say  any 
thing  ;  and  then  he  wrote  the  note,  and  told  me 
he  would  get  me  a  place.  He  was  a  kind-look 
ing  man,  if  he  did  speak  roughly  at  first." 

"Did  you  see  what  name  was  on  the  sign?" 

"I  never  thought  to  look,"  replied  the  '»'»y, 
u  I  was  so  glad  when  I  came  away.  But  I  can 
go  straight  to  the  place." 

"1  will  write  the  gentleman  n  note    thanking 


02  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

him  for  his  kindness,  and  you  must  take  it  to 
him  in  the  morning.  How  light  it  makes  my 
heart  feel  to  know  that  we  are  going  back  to 
dear  England  !  God  is  good  to  us,  my  son,  and 
we  must  be  obedient  and  thankful." 

Just  a  little  before  the  evening  twilight  fell, 
word  came  up  to  the  woman  that  a  gentleman 
had  called  and  wished  to  see  her. 

"Go  and  see  who  it  is,  Charles,"  she  said  to 
her  son. 

"  O,  mother !  It's  the  gentleman  who  sent 
you  the  note  ! "  exclaimed  Charles,  in  an  under 
tone,  coming  back  quickly.  "  And  he  wants  to 
see  you.  Can  he  come  up?" 

There  was  the  hasty  glance  of  a  woman's  eyes 
around  the  room,  to  set;  if  everything  was  in 
order,  then  a  few  slight  changes  in  attire. 

"  Ask  him  to  come  up,  my  son,"  she  said,  and 
Charles  went  down  stairs  again. 

A  man's  firm  tread  approached  the  door.  It 
was  opened,  and  the-  boy's  mother  and  the  boy's 
new-found  friend  looked  into  each  other's  faces. 

"O,  Edward!"  fell  from  her  lips,  in  a  quick, 
»ui  prised  "oice  ;  and  she  started  from  her  chair, 


AS    YOU     HAVE     OPPORTTXITY.          63 

and  stood,  strongly  agitated,  before  him.  He 
advanced,  not  speaking  until  he  had  taken  her 
hand. 

"Florence  !  I  never  thought  to  see  you  thus  !  " 
He  said  it  in  a  calm,  kind,  evenly  modulated 
voice,  but  her  ears  were  tinely  enough  chorded 
to  perceive  the  deep  emotion  that  lay  beneath. 
He  said  it,  looking  down  into  the  dark,  soft, 
tender  brown  eyes.  "But  I  think  there  is  a 
providence  in  our  meeting,"  he  added. 

They  sat  down  and  talked  long  together,  — 
talked  of  the  times  gone  by,  and  of  the  causes 
that  separated  them,  while  their  hearts  beat  only 
for  each  other  —  of  the  weary  years  that  had 
passed  for  both  of  them  since  then  —  of  the 
actual  present  in  their  lives. 

"I  have  a  motherless  child,"  he  said  at  last  — 
"a  tender  little  thing  that  I  love,  and  to-day  I 
find  her  body  purple  with  bruises  from  the  cruel 
hand  of  a  servant !  Florence,  will  you  be  a 
mother  to  that  child?  You  have  a  noble  boy, 
who  is  fatherless ;  let  me  be  to  him  a  father. 
O,  Florence !  there  has  been  a  great  void  in  our 
lives.  A  dark  and  impassable  river  has  flowed 


64  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

between  us  for  years.  But  we  stand,  at  last, 
together,  and  if  the  old  love  fills  your  heart  as 
it  fills  mine,  there  are  golden  days  for  us  in  the 
future." 

And  so  it  proved.  The  lady  and  her  son  did 
not  go  back  to  England,  but  passed  to  the  mer 
chant's  stately  residence,  she  becoming  its  mis 
tress,  and  he  finding  a  home  there,  and  a  truer 
father  than  the  one  he  had,  in  former  years, 
called  by  the  name. 

"  Do  good  as  you  have  opportunity."  Only  a 
week  before  the  lad's  application  to  the  mer 
chant  had  this  injunction  been  urged,  in  his 
hearing,  by  an  eloquent  preacher,  and  the  words, 
coming  to  his  thought,  led  him  to  call  back  the 
boy  after  his  cold,  almost  unkind,  repulse. 

Many  times  he  thought  of  the  incident  after 
wards,  and  of  the  small  event  on  which  such 
life-long  issue  hung,  almost  trembling  in  view 
of  what  he  might  have  lost  had  that  slight  oppor* 
tunity  for  doing  good  been  neglected. 


COMPENSATION. 


COMPENSATION. 

THE  case  was  hopeless  for  the  sick  girl. 
Health  had  departed,  never  to  return  again. 
Life  opened  in  her  blossomy  spring-time  with 
a  fair,  sweet  promise.  The  sun  was  bright,  the 
air  soft  and  balmy,. the  earth  smiling  with  flow 
ers.  But  the  morning  soon  became  overcast. 
At  first,  the  sun  was  hidden  ;  then  the  rain  be 
gan  to  fall  "  into  her  life,"  and  then  from  the  sky, 
once  so  lucid  and  serene,  fell  a  storm  that  deso 
lated  the  land. 

At  fifteen,  Celeste  Williams  —  to  whom  rav 
ishing  glimpses  of  the  world,  out  into  which  her 
feet  were  gathering  up  strength  to   carry  her, 
came  through  flower-hung  vistas  —  drooped  sud 
denly.     The  tint  of  roses  left  her  cheeks;   the 
beautiful  roundness  of  form  and  features  depart 
ed  ;  the  light  of  a  glad  spirit  went  out  of  h( 
eyes.     To  the  smile,  that  made   rainbows  ovc 
5 


(56  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

her  face,  pain's  rigid  aspects  succeeded.  Ah, 
yes  !  the  case,  as  we  have  said,  was  hopeless  for 
the  sick  girl.  Health  had  departed,  never  to 
return  again. 

"There  is  one  compensation  in  all  this,"  was 
the  remark  of  some  who  stood  on  the  outside  — 
of  some  who  were  not  very  deeply  versed  m 
life's  true  philosophies.  "  Her  parents  have 
wealth.  They  can  surround  her  with  all  things 
to  divert  and  interest  her  mind.  How  much 
worse  it  might  be !  Ah,  happy  for  the  young 
sufferer  is  it  that  her  friends  are  not  poor ! " 

So  it  would  seem.  Thare  are  very  few  per 
sons  who  would  not  have  assented  to  this  view. 
And  yet  nothing  that  wealth  could  bring  the 
pale  sufferer  reached  the  seat  of  bodily  or  men- 
tal  pain  with  anything  but  the  most  temporary 
relief.  After  the  first  year  of  sharp  assault, 
during  which  the  citadel  of  health  was  taken, 
and  its  walls  thrown  down  so  that  they  might 
never  be  rebuilded  again,  the  crippled  life, 
which  Had  lain  in  still  prostration  for  a  time, 
began  to  gather  up  its  few  remaining  powers,  to 
battle  with  a  slowly-renewing  vitality,  and  to 


COMPENSATION. 

live  again  —  but  in  what  an  imperfect  condition 
compared  with  the  former  one  ! 

It  was  thought  a  great  gain  when  Celeste 
could  bear  to  be  lifted  from  the  bed,  and  sit 
for  half  an  hour,  propped  up  with  cushions, 
in  a  great  easy-chair.  Ho\v  hopeful  were  the 
faces  that  gathered  around  her!  After  a  while, 
improvement  went  on  so  far  that  she  could  sit 
up  for  the  greater  part  of  each  day.  But  there 
the  better  progress  stopped.  Weeks  and  months 
beyond  this  gave  but  little  change  for  the  better. 
Almost  every  day  the  doctor  came,  but  his  skill 
was  at  fault.  He  could  not  dislodge  the  enemy, 
which  had  gained  too  secure  a  possession. 

And  now  came  that  readjustment  of  things, 
extern!  to  the  life  of  Celeste  Williams,  which 
was  to  try  her  most  severely.  Not  able  to  keep 
up  with  her  compeers,  she  must  be  left  behind  ; 
and  left,  for  all  the  wealth  of  her  parents,  in  a 
dreary,  soul-fretting,  impatient,  rebellious  isola 
tion.  Her  sisters'  lives  soon  grew  out  of  sym 
pathy  with  her  life;  and  the  distance  between 
them  so  rapidly  increased,  that  they  became 
little  better  than  strangers  to  each  other.  Only 


68  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

tho  mother  of  Celeste  kept  near  to  her  i  i  patient 
love.  But  she  was  not  a  wise  woman.  Her 
life  was  in  the  sensuous  plane.  She  could  not 
get  below  the  surface  of  things  so  as  to  compre 
hend  the  mental  states  and  mental  needs  of  her 
child.  All  her  ministrations,  therefore,  never 
reached  beyond  things  palliative,  and  of  course 
temporary.  She  sought  to  amuse,  divert,  to 
interest  in  books,  music,  and  the  like.  But 
these  had  power  over  the  pale-faced  sufferer 
only  for  a  little  while ;  nay,  they  often  made 
the  sense  of  deprivation  more  acute,  and  hurt 
instead  of  helping. 

^•And  so,  in  time,  poor  Celeste  became  a  weary 
burden  to  herself  and  every  one.  Nothing  hav 
ing  been  denied  to  her  that  money  could  pro 
cure,  she  had  reached  out,  under  the  excitement 
of  a  restless  dissatisfaction,  grasping  at  this 
object  and  that,  until  almost  everything  within 
her  reach  had  been  tried,  and  thrown  aside  — 
her  poor  heart  growing  sadder  and  more  dissat 
isfied  at  the  failure  of  each  new  experiment. 

Moody,  fretful,  ill-natured,  and  self-torment 
ing,  at  eighteen  Celeste  Williams  had  alienated 


COMPENSATION.  69 

nearly  all  but  the  mother's  heart;  and  ofi  that 
heart  she  lay  as  a  heavy  burden. 

One  day  Mrs.  Williams  was  talking  with  a 
friend  about  her  invalid  daughter,  and  mourning 
over  her  unhappy  state. 

"If  she  were  only  patient,"  she  said,  "only 
made  an  effort  to  be  cheerful  sometimes.  But 
I  am  weary  with  complaint.  She  suffers  pain, 
I  know,  and  pain  is  hard  to  bear.  She  is  shut 
out  from  all  pleasure,  and  the  young  heart  lives 
on  pleasure.  Her  sisters  go  and  come  at  will ; 
but  she  cannot  move  even  from  the  bed,  or  her 
chair,  without  a  hand  to  lean  upon.  Her  imagi 
nation  is  constantly  excited  with  descriptions  of 
all  those  enjoyments  upon  which  young  life 
enters  with  such  a  zest,  but  the  taste  of  them 
even  is  denied  to  her.  I  pity  the  poor  child  in 
my  heart,  but  cannot  find  any  way  to  help  her." 

"  What  does  she  do  through  all  her  weary 
days?"  asked  the  friend. 

"  Do?"  There  was  surprise  in  the  questioning 
voice  of  Mrs.  Williams.  "Why,  nothing!" 

"Don't  she  read?" 

"Not    much.     A  novel    amuses  her  now  and 


70  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

then,  or,  I  might  say,  excites  her  with  its  rep 
resentation  of  active  life-scenes  into  which  she 
can  never  enter,  and  leaves  her  in  a  more  un 
comfortable  state  of  mind  than  when  she  opened 
it:!  pages." 

"Then,  for  most  of  her  time,  she  sits  idly  in 
her  chair,  or  lies,  wasteful  of  all  time,  upon 
her  bed?" 

"  She  sits  or  lies  through  all  the  days  and 
nights  of  her  life.  She  can  neither  stand  nor 
walk,  so  there  is  no  alternative.  But  idleness 
or  time-wasting  can  hardty  be  predicated  of  one 
in  her  condition."  said  Mrs.  Williams,  both  tone 
and  manner  repelling  the  intimation  that  ap 
peared  in  the  lady's  question. 

It  came,  then,  into  the  lady's  mind  that  she 
understood  Celeste's  case  better  than  her  mother, 
and  that  she  might  help  the  miserable  girl  to 
acquire  some  better  and  happier  state.  So  she 
said,  — 

*  I  must  go  up  and  see  your  daughter.  A  new 
face  and  a  new  voice  may  interest  her  for  a  little 
while,  and  that  will  be  so  much  gained." 

"It  is  kind  in  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Williams, 


COMPENSATION.  71 

gratefully,  for  not  often  did  her  visitors  express 
any  desire  to  see  the  sick  girl  who  was  hidden 
away  in  one  of  the  chambers  above.  "She 
doesn't  see  many  new  faces." 

They  went  up  stairs.  The  visitor,  whose 
name  was  Mrs.  Baldwin,  was  struck,  on  enter 
ing  the  room  where  Celeste  sat  with  her  hands 
lying  idly  in  her  lap,  by  the  weary  sadness 
which  overlaid  all  other  expressions  in  her 
almost  colorless  face.  It  affected  her  with  a 
most  tender  pity.  In  the  large,  dark,  beautiful 
eyes,  that  fixed  themselves  in  a  kind  of  mute 
appeal  upon  her  face,  she  read  something  more 
than  selfish  fretfulness,  —  something  that  made 
her  heart  yearn  towards  the  helpless,  almost 
hopeless,  sufferer,  who  found  no  compensation 
in  all  the  elegance,  and  ease,  and  external  means 
of  comfort  by  which  she  was  surrounded. 

To  ask  her  about  her  bodily  condition  and 
sensations  was  the  natural  introduction  of  con 
versation  ;  but  Mrs.  Baldwin  dwelt  upon  them  as 
lightly  as  possible,  at  the  same  time  that  she 
appeared  to  feel  much  sympathy  with  the  in 
valid.  While  talking  with  her  in  a  cheerful 


72  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

way,  us  soon  as  she  could  pass  to  some  cheer 
ful  subject,  Mrs.  Baldwin  drew  from  her  pocket 
a  small  bit  of  worsted  knitting  which  had  been 
commenced  in  a  leisure  moment,  and,  without 
remarking  upon  it,  began,  while  yet  talking,  to 
loop,  dexterously,  the  pink  zephyr  over  the 
needle  points.  She  saw  the  eyes  of  Celeste  go 
to  her  hand  and  dwell  there,  and  she  saw,  in  a 
little  while,  a  kindling  look  of  interest.  Then, 
in  a  familiar  way,  she  leaned  towards  her,  and 
held  the  knitting  so  that  she  could  examine  it. 

"How  sweetly  it  is  done  ! "  said  the  girl,  in  a 
tone  of  interest,  as  she  examined  the  evenly- 
drawn  threads,  and  noted  the  graceful  form  that 
the  work  was  taking.  "For  what  is  it  de 
signed  ?  " 

"  For  a  light  scarf.  I  saw  one  the  other  day 
that  pleased  me,  and  mean  to  have  one  just  like 
it," 

Celeste  looked  up  into  her  face  with  something 
of  wonder.  There  was  a  new  spirit  in  this.  If 
her  mother  or  one  of  her  sisters  had  seen  an 
article  of  dress  that  pleased  them,  money  might 
have  procured  it,  but  skilful  hands  never. 


COMPENSATION.  73 

The  busy  fingers  of  Mrs.  Baldwin  went  on 
again,  and  Celeste  watched  them,  while  a  gleam 
of  interest  brightened  in  her  wan  face. 

"  How  fast  you  do  it !  "  she  said. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  knitted  more  slowly,  that  Ce 
leste  might  see  the  particular  manner  of  looping 
the  threads. 

"Is  it  hard  to  learn?"  asked  Celeste. 

"O,  no.  I  think  it  very  easy.  See  here;" 
and  she  leaned  again  towards  the  sick  girl,  speak 
ing  very  kindly.  "You  loop  this  thread  of 
worsted  over  the  needle,  just  so,  and  then  slip 
the  other  needle  through  the  loop,  and  draw  the 
thread  so.  Now  I  will  do  it  again.  You  see 
how  regularly  the  work  is  laid  down,  loop  by 
loop,  in  that  simple  manner,  and  what  a  light, 
graceful  thing  is  produced." 

**  Why,  it  isn't  difficult ! "  exclaimed  Celeste, 
her  face  actually  brightening. 

"It's  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world,"  replied 
Mrs.  Baldwin.  "  Take  the  work  into  your  own 
hand,  and  try  to  make  the  stitches." 

"  O,  no,"  interposed  the  uncomprehending 
mother.  "  Don't  let  her  spoil  your  work,  out  of 
sheer  good  nature." 


74  THE     PEACEMAKER 

Celeste,  who  was  sensitive,  drew  back,  and 
the  light  went  out  of  her  face. 

"No  danger  of  spoiling  it,"  answered  Mrs. 
Baldwin.  "Come,  dear,  I  want  to  see  you  try. 
I  like  to  have  people  interested  in  what  I  am 
doing.  There,  take  the  needles,  so  ;  "  and  she 
put  the  work  into  Celeste's  hands.  "  Now  loop 
the  thread  over  the  right  hand  needle  —  yes, 
that's  the  motion  —  and  now  take  off  the  loop 
with  the  other  needle,  and  draw  it  up  close  to 
the  body  of  the  work.  Right  !  I  couldn't  have 
done  it  better  myself.  Now  make  another  loop 
—  yes  —  now  take  it  off  —  so.  Right  again! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  easy?" 

There  was  an  actual  glow  in  the  sick  girl's 
pale  face,  as  her  mind,  following  eagerly  her 
fingers,  quickened  her  pulses,  and  sent  the 
feeble  blood  in  fuller  currents  to  the  surface. 

"You  will  tire  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Williams, 
not  yet  understanding  the  meaning  and  use  of 
what  was  before  her  eyes.  But  Mrs.  Baldwin 


"Keep  on,  my  dear.     That  stitch  is  as  well 
laid  down  as  I  could  do  it  myself.     And  so  is 


COMPENSATION.  75 

that  —  and  that.  Why,  how  true  your  hand  is  ! 
You  must  have  done  this  kind  of  work  before." 

But  Celeste  said  no  —  and  said  it  with  a 
pleased  smile.  The  compliment  to  her  skill 
was  gratifying. 

"I  think  this  kind  of  work  would  interest 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Baldwin. 

"I'm  sure  it  would,"  answered  Celeste. 
"Won't  you  get  me  some  needles  and  zephyr, 
mother?" 

"Nonsense,  child!"  answered  Mrs.  Williams. 
"  That's  only  a  fancy.  You'd  tire  of  it  in  half 
an  hour." 

"Don't  believe  anything  of  the  sort,"  said 
Mrs.  Baldwin.  "It's  fascinating  kind  of  work. 
Arc  you  really  in  earnest,  dear?"  looking  with 
kind  encouragement  at  Celeste. 

"I'm  sure  I  should  like  it,"  replied  Celeste. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  sat  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if 
thinking  about  something. 

"Suppose  I  leave  this  piece  that  I've  just 
commenced."  she  then  said.  "  It's  very  simple, 
and  you  have  already  learned  the  stitch." 

"You  are  so  kind!"     Celeste  looked  with  au 


"6  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

expression  that  was  almost  grateful  into  tin 
lady's  face;  and  then,  turning  her  eyes  down 
upon  the  worsted  in  her  hands,  plied  the  long 
needles  with  the  earnestness  of  a  child  who  hud 
found  some  new  amusement. 

"  Shall  I  come  in  to-morrow  and  see  how  you 
are  getting  along?"  asked  Mrs.  Baldwin,  as  she 
arose  to  leave. 

"  Do ;  I  shall  be  so  pleased ! "  In  what  a 
cheerful  tone  the  invalid  spoke  —  a  tone  so  new 
to  the  mother's  ears  that  she  turned  her  eyes, 
vvonderingly,  on  her  face. 

For  more  than  an  hour  after  Mrs.  Baldwin 
left  her,  Celeste  knitted  on,  feeling  so  much 
interest  in  what  she  was  doing  that  she  forgot 
all  pain,  discomfort,  or  weariness.  Then,  tired 
by  the  exertion,  she  let  her  hands  fall  in  her  lap, 
and,  closing  her  eyes,  leaned  her  head  on  the 
cushions  that  lined  her  chair,  feeling  a  deep  in 
terior  peace  and  satisfaction  of  mind  that  she 
had  not  known  for  months  —  perhaps  years. 
After  resting  for  a  while,  she  resinned  her  knit 
ting  again  ;  apd  so,  with  intervals  of  rest,  kept 
on  through  most  of  the  day.  As  she  saw  thu 


COMPENSATION.  77 

scarf  growing  under  her  hands,  she  experienced 
a  pleasure  that  was  altogether  new. 

"How  is  your  daughter?"  asked  Mrs.  Bald 
win,  on  the  next  day. 

"  I  can  hardly  answer  that  question,"  replied 
Mrs.  Williams.  "Better,  I  should  think,  if 
change  of  temper  is  any  index.  But,  I'm  afraid 
she'll  wear  herself  down  with  that  worsted  knit 
ting." 

"Ah  !  then  she  hasn't  tired  of  that?" 

"O,  dear,  no!  She's  completely  carried  away 
with  it !  I  never  saw  the  like  !  " 

Poor,  hungry,  starving  invalid !  Her  mind 
had  been  consuming  itself  for  lack  of  that  mitri- 
tioii  which  is  only  to  be  found  in  some  kind  of 
useful  employment;  and  now,  that  food  was 
given,  she  sat  long  at  the  repast,  though  tho 
fare  was  humble.  There  was  real  enjoyment  to 
her  in  seeing  the  delicate,  fabric  growing  under 
her  dexterous  fingers,  and  already  she  was  an 
ticipating  the  pleasure  that  would  crown  her 
work  when  she  could  throw  the  finished  scarf 
over  her  mother's  shoulders, 

A  smile  played  around  the  lips  of  Celeste,  ant) 


78  '  THE    P  E  A  C  £  M  A  K  E  H . 

light  beamed  from  her  eyes,  when  she  saw  Mrs, 
Baldwin. 

"Haven't  I  been  industrious?"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  held  up  the  long  piece  of  work  which  she 
had  accomplished. 

"Is  it  possible?  Why,  this  is  marvellous!" 
said  Mrs.  Baldwin.  "And  how  well  it  is  done  ! 
Really,  better  than  my  part !  You  must  have 
enjoyed  your  work,  dear." 

"Enjoyment  is  the  right  word,"  returned  Ce 
leste.  "Yes,  I  really  enjoyed  it;  and  I  must 
thank  you  for  having  furnished  me  with  a  new 
pleasure." 

"  You  have  the  matter  all  in  your  own  hands 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Baldwin,  after  she  had  retired 
with  Mrs.  Williams  from  the  sick  girl's  room. 
"It  was  something  to  do,  through  the  day's 
weary  hours,  that  Celeste  wanted.  Something 
for  her  thought  to  rest  on  with  interest." 

"But  she'll  soon  grow  tired  of  this,"  returned 
the  mother.  "It's  only  the  novelty  of  tho  thing 
that  interests  her  now." 

"Not  the  novelty  alone,  be  assured,  my 
friend,''  s:'.M  Mrs.  Baldwin.  "The  ploasi:re  she 


COMPENSATION.  711 

finds  in  this  work  has  a  deeper  source.  In 
obedience  to  will  and  thought,  her  fingers  are 
creating  a  form  of  beauty.  She  sees  it  growing 
into  the  perfect  whole  her  fancy  has  already  pic 
tured,  and  the  desire  for  completeness  is  so 
earnest  that  she  loses  the  old  sense  of  misery 
that  so  long  burdened  her  young  life.  Don't, 
let  me  beg  of  you,  discourage  her  in  the  least. 
Praise  her  work,  and,  when  it  is  finished,  en 
courage  her  to  do  something  more.  I  will  call 
to  see  her  every  few  days,  and  show  her  new 
articles  and  new  stitches.  There  is  no  end  to 
the  variety  of  things  which  may  be  produced  by 
netting  and  crochet  needles." 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  as  hopeful  as  you  do," 
said  the  mother,  who  was  too  much  of  a  world 
ling  and  excitement  lover  to  comprehend  the 
value  of  useful  work  to  one  imprisoned  like  her 
child.  "But  she  can't  knit  and  crochet  all  the 
time." 

"  If  half  or  one  third  of  her  time,"  replied 
Mrs.  Baldwin,  "is  thus  employed,  just  see  what 
she  gains.  Forgetfulness  of  pain  and  life-weari- 
ne-s  for  the  time;  and  a  now  zest  for  books,  oj 


80  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

some  light  amusement  within  her  reach,  during 
other  portions  of  the  day.  My  dear  friend,  it 
is  useful  employment  that  the  mind  hungers  for, 
and,  without  such  employment,  there  can  be  no 
mental  repose,  no  true  sense  of  pleasure,  no 
interior  satisfaction.  People  in  health,  and  with 
means  at  command,  try  to  substitute  recreations, 
excitements,  changes  of  scene,  and  all  that,  for 
tvork,  and  succeed  in  getting  along  after  a 
fashion ;  but  life  proves  even  to  them  a  weari 
ness  and  disappointment.  They  are  not  happy, 
nay,  not  even  cheerful.  If  this  be  so  with  men 
und  women  in  health,  who  can  'enjoy  life,'  as 
idle  pleasure-seeking  is  usually  called,  how 
wretched  must  the  idle,  aimless,  useless  in 
valid  be,  whose  world  is  limited  by  the  walls  of 
oer  chamber  !  If,  then,  my  friend,  you  love  your 
child,  seek  to  interest  her  in  doing  something 
useful  with  her  hands.  Help  her  to  turn  her 
self-tormenting  thought  outwards  upon  real 
things  in  which  interest  may  be  taken.  In  this 
way>  you  may  lead  her  out  of  her  old  self,  and 
make  her,  instead  of  the  wretched  girl  she  has 
been  in  times  past,  the  happiest  member  of  your 
household." 


COMPENSATION.  81 

The  sceptical  mother  could  hardly  keep  back 
a  smile  at  the  friend's  enthusiasm.  But  time 
made  the  prediction  true.  Mrs.  Baldwin  was 
too  wise  and  good  a  woman  at  heart  to  let  the 
work  of  blessing  a  human  soul  rest  in  so  fair  a 
beginning.  Every  few  days  she  called  to  see 
Celeste,  and  always  showed  such  an  interest  in 
what  she  was  doing,  that  her  visits  were  seasons 
of  real  enjoyment. 

By  the  time  Celeste  finished  one  article,  she 
had  her  mind  reaching  out  with  a  desire  to  take 
up  some  fascinating  novelty  in  the  same  direc 
tion  ;  and  so  the  days  and  weeks  and  month.>3 
went  by,  and  the  invalid,  instead  of  wearying, 
grew  more  absorbed  in  the  work  of  creating 
forms  of  use  and  beauty.  And  now  she  could 
read  with  a  new  and  healthier  interest,  and 
listen  to  descriptions  of  what  was  passing  in  the 
gay  world  without  envy,  or  restless  longings 
after  the  unattainable.  The  sisters,  who  had 
shunned  the  fretful,  ill-natured  girl,  now  began 
to  feel  drawn  towards  her,  and  to  find  in  her 
sweeter  spirit  an  attraction  that  drew  out  their 
tender  love.  How  often,  now,  did  she  look  upon 
6 


82  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

them  in  tear-glistening  pleasure,  as  she  saw  the 
airy  zephyr-work  she  had  made  floating  like 
rainbow  tissues  around  them,  and  feel  glad  in 
their  grace  and  beauty ! 

And  so,  day  after  day,  the  invalid's  chamber 
grew  brighter  in  the  sunshine  of  a  cheerful, 
loving  spirit.  It  had  not  been  in  the  power  of 
wealth,  nor  of  all  the  advantages  that  wealth 
could  bring,  to  send  a  ray  of  light  through  the 
darkness  that  veiled  the  sick  girl's  heart.  Her 
needs  were  on  a  level  with  the  needs  of  all  God's 
children,  rich  or  poor,  and  help  could  only  come 
to  her  through  the  same  door  that  it  comes  to 
all  —  the  door  of  useful  occupation.  This:  is  the 
great  panacea  for  the  mind  diseased. 


HE    LOST    HIS    REWARD.  83 


VI. 

HE   LOST   HIS   REWARD. 

"  THERE'S  a  lady  in  the  parlor,  sir." 
Mr.  Convvay  looked  up  from  the  table  at 
which  he  sat,  with  the  pages  of  an  account-book 
open  before  him,  and,  knitting  his  brows  slight 
ly,  like  one  who  felt  annoyed  at  being  disturbed, 
said,  — 

"Did  she  send  a  card,  or  give  her  name?" 
"No,  sir,"  replied  the  servant. 
"Why  didn't  you  ask  her  name,  then?"     Mr. 
Conway's  brows  fell  into  deep  lines. 

"I  did,  sir.     But  she  said  she  was  a  stranger." 
"  What  kind  of  a  looking  woman  is  she  ?  " 
"  She's  dressed  in  mourning,   and  has   a  veil 
over  her  face.     Looks  as  if  she  were  poor,  sir." 
"  Poor ! "    muttered   Mr.   Conway  to    himself. 
"Some  widow  with  ten  children,  no  doubt,  come 
to  offer  me  the  privilege  of  supporting  them  and 
her  into  the  bargain.'' 


84  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

w  Shall  I  say  that  you  will  see  her,  sir?  " 

"  No  ;  tell  her  I'm  engaged." 

The  servant  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Be 
fore  he  had  reached  the  door,  Mr.  Conway 
said,  — 

"Stop  a  moment,  Edward." 

The  man  came  back  a  few  steps. 

"  I  shall  have  to  see  her,  I  suppose.  I  won 
der  who  she  can  be,  and  what  she  wants?" 

"  Shall  I  go  down  and  ask  again  for  her  name, 
sir?" 

"No  use  in  that,  if  she's  a  stranger,"  replied 
Mr.  Conway.  "  Say  that  I  will  be  down." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  grumbled  Mr.  Conway  to  him 
self,  "I  am  pestered  to  death  with  beggars  of  all 
classes,  genteel  and  uugenteel.  This  is  another, 
without  doubt.  A  strange  woman,  dressed  in 
shabby  mourning.  Of  course  she  belongs  to  the 
tribe." 

In  this  spirit  Mr.  Conway  went  down  to  the 
parlor  to  meet  his  visitor.  His  aspect  was  win 
try  enough  when  he  entered  —  wintry  enough 
to  kill  any  young  hope-blossoms  that  might  be 
half-expanded  in  the  mind  of  this  stranger.  She 


HE     LOST     HIS     REWARD.  85 

arose  as  he  entered,  and,  drawing  aside  her  veil, 
showed  the  pale,  wasted  countenance  of  a  woman 
not  past  thirty  years  of  age.  All  her  features 
were  delicately  cut,  and  there  was  a  depth  and 
beauty  in  her  large  hazel  eyes  that  struck  even 
the  hard  man  who  stood  half-scowling  before 
her. 

"I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a 
hesitating  voice,  "and  must  apologize  for  this 
intrusion  ;  but  it  sometimes  happens  that  we  are 
placed  in  circumstances  which  leave  us  no  al 
ternative  but  to  do  what  at  other  times  would 
be  almost  impossible.  It  is  so  with  me  now  ; 
and  this  must  be  my  only  excuse  for  calling." 

"As  I  suspected,"  said  Mr.  Conway  to  himself, 
as,  with  cold  politeness,  he  desired  the  lady  to 
resume  her  seat. 

"/am  a  stranger  to  you,"  she  added,  after 
both  were  seated.  "But  my  husband  was  one 
of  your  early  friends.  His  name  was  Glasgow." 

"  Glasgow  ?  Glasgow  ?  "  Mr.  Con  way  repeated 
the  name  in  a  tone  of  inquiry. 

"You  were  college  friends,"  said  the  lady. 

"O,  ah,  yes.      I   remember   Fred   Glasgow," 


86  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

There  was  a  partial  lighting  up  of  Mr.  Con  way's 
face. 

"  He  was  my  husband ;  and  I  often  heard  him 
speak  of  you,  —  so  often  and  so  kindly,  that  I 
naturally  came  to  feel  towards  you  as  a  fiicud. 
He  died  a  year  ago."  The  lady's  voice  faltered, 
and  she  turned  her  face  away  to  hide  the  waves 
of  feeling  that  were  passing  over  it. 

"And  Glasgow  is  dead!  Poor  fellow!''  said 
Mr.  Co u way,  with  a  rude  familiarity  of  speech, 
and  in  a  tone  of  half  pity,  that  wounded  the 
gentle,  loving  heart  in  which  the  image  of  a 
dead  husband  was  enshrined  as  a  sacred  thing. 

"Fred   Glasgow."     "Poor  fellow."     This  was 

O 

the  way  in  which  that  old  friend,  of  whom  she 
had  heard  so  often,  spoke  of  her  honored  hus 
band,  now  invested  in  her  mind,  by  death,  with 
saintly  attributes. 

"  Where  did  he  die  ?  —  in  this  city  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Conway. 

"Xo,  sir.     He  died  in  L ." 

"This  state?" 

"Yes,  sir.     He  was  a  physician." 

"Ah?    I  was  not  aware  of  that.     The  truth  is, 


HE    LOST     HIS    REWARD.  87 

when  men  get  fairly  immersed  in  business,  they 
lose  sight  of  school-boy  days  and  school-boy 
friends." 

Mr.  Conway  spoke  coldly.  Love  of  gain  had 
long  ago  burned  out  all  the  pleasant  memories  of 
early  time  and  early  friendships  ;  and  he  heard 
of  Frederick  Glasgow's  death  with  scarcely  an 
emotion  of  regret,  except  for  the  fact  that  his 
widow  had  come  to  annoy  him. 

"Forgive  me,  then,"  said  the  visitor,  rising 
with  a  cold  dignity  of  manner,  and  drawing  her 
veil  over  her  face.  "  Your  memory  was  so 
green  and  fragrant  in  the  heart  of  my  husband, 
that  I  thought  it  must  be  the  same  with  you." 

Then,  bowing,  she  was  moving  towards  the 
door,  when  Mr.  Conway,  rebuked  by  her  words 
and  manner,  stepped  forward  quickly,  and 

"I  beg  pardon,  madam.  Nothing  was  farther 
from  my  thoughts  than  to  wound  you." 

And  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and  led  her 
back  to  the  seat  from  which  she  had  arisen. 
Mr.  Conway  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  lie  had 
been  rude,  almost  brutal,  to  this  wonu-.n,  ;il!  tbo 


88  THE    PEACEMAKEE. 

circumstances  of  the  case  considered.  He  had 
looked  upon  her  as  a  mere  speculator  on  his 
purse,  who  came  with  the  argument  of  a  dead 
husband,  formerly  his  friend,  to  enforce  her  de 
mand.  But  he  felt  that  he  had  not  only  been 
mistaken,  but  had  betrayed  himself  before  a  lady 
who  had  risen,  by  her  reaction  upon  his  con 
duct,  into  a  position  that  extorted  a  deferential 
respect. 

"I  beg  pardon,  madam,"  he  repeated.  "We 
get  rough  ways,  sometimes,  in  our  hard  contact 
with  men  and  things  in  this  world.  But  it  is 
only  on  the  outside.  I  remember  your  husband 
now,  as  if  we  had  met  but  yesterday.  We  were 
close  friends  at  college.  But  our  ways  in  life 
took  different  courses,  and  we  never  met  again 
after  leaving  our  Alma  Mater.  And  so  he  has 
been  living  as  a  physician  in  L ?"  « 

"  Yes,  sir."  The  widow  did  not  withdraw  her 
veil. 

"I  wonder  he  never  wrote  to  me."  That  was 
a  mere  hypocritical  pretence,  Mr.  Conway. 

"  He  often  spoke  of  doing  so ;  but  thought 
yon  might  be  deeply  absorbed  in  business,  and, 


HE    LOST    HIS    REWARD.  89 

therefore,  in  110  mood  to  return  to  the  pleasant 
days  and  companions  that  were  so  warmly  re 
membered  by  him,"  was  answered. 

"Nothing  would  have  given  me  more  pleas 
ure."  Not  true,  Mr.  Conway,  and  you  know  it. 
Is  the  widow  deceived  ?  No ;  she  is  too  clear- 
seeing  a  woman  for  that.  She  understands  these 
sentences  to  be  mere  words.  She  has  read  you 
by  a  few  clear  indices,  Mr.  Conway,  and  knows 
you,  as  to  quality,  if  not  as  to  your  varied  as 
pects  of  character,  as  well  as  if  she  had  been 
reading  you  for  years. 

There  followed  a  time  of  silence.  Of  course, 
iu  calling  upon  this  old  friend  of  her  husband's 
the  widow  had  a  purpose.  Mr.  Conway  sat  in 
expectation.  But  the  purpose  was  not  declared, 
nor  even  glanced  at  remotely.  Mr.  Conway 
now  asked  a  few  leading  questions.  But  they 
brought  only  direct  answers.  Then  the  lady 
arose  again,  and  said,  in  natural  embarrassment, 
—  for  her  position  was  far  from  being  easy  or 
agreeable,  — 

"I  have  already  intruded  on  you  too  long,  and 
must  again  ask  to  be  forgiven  for  a  liberty  that  I 
should  not  have  take;?." 


90  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"  Not  yet,  Mrs.  Glasgow,  not  yet.  Be  seated 
again,  I  pray  you."  And  Mr.  Couway  would 
not  let  her  retire.  How  could  he,  under  the 
circumstances?  "You  have  not  yet  stated  the 
object  of  your  visit.  Can  I  serve  you  in  any 
thing?" 

Mrs.  Glasgow  sat  down  again,  but  didn't  reply 
until  the  question,  "Can  I  serve  you  in  any 
thing?"  was  repeated. 

"You  can  serve  me,  if  you  will."  Yet  even 
in  the  tones  that  conveyed  this  sentence  to  the 
ears  of  Mr.  Conway  was  apparent  an  internal 
rejection  of  all  service  from  him. 

"In  what  way,  madam?"  Mr.  Conway  tried 
to  seem  interested,  and  willing  to  serve.  But 
his  selfish  heart  relucted,  and  his  voice  betrayed 
his  reluctance. 

"I  will  state  my  case  plainly,  Mr.  Conway," 
said  the  widow,  now  fully  self-possessed.  "But 
you  must  not  feel  in  any  way  constrained  to 
serve  me,  after  you  know  how  it  stands.  Thus 
it  is  with  me.  My  husband  died  just  as  he  was 
beginning  to  secure  a  good  practice,  and  left  me 
with  five  little  children  to  care  for.  I  had  noth- 


HE     LOST     HIS     REWARD.  91 

ing  but  our  household  furniture,  and  a  few  bills 
for  medical  services  due  my  husband.  Only  one 
way  of  support  offered,  and  that  was  by  giving 
musical  instruction.  This  resource  has  barely 
sufficed  for  our  humblest  wants,  and  my  health 
is  slowly  but  surely  giving  way  under  exposure 
and  excessive  fatigue.  It  is  plain  to  myself  and 
to  my  friends  that  I  cannot  keep  up  much 
longer. 

"At  this  crisis,  a  new  avenue  to  useful  and 
more  adequately  remunerative  employment  has 
opened  before  me ;  but  certain  difficulties  are  in 
the  way  of  entrance  that  I  cannot  remove  with 
out  help  from  a  stronger  hand  than  mine.  There 
is  a  well-patronized  seminary  for  young  ladies 
in  L ,  which  the  present  owner,  in  conse 
quence  of  ill  health,  is  about  to  transfer  to  a 
successor.  All  my  friends  are  desirous  that  I 
should  take  the  institution,  and  the  principal  is 
willing  to  pass  it  o-ver  into  my  hands  if  I  can 
accede  to  the  terms.  But  —  " 

She  stopped. 

"  What  arc  the  terms  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Con  way. 

"Twelve  hundred  dollars  for  the  furniture  and 


92  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

good  will.  Five  hundred  paid  down,  and  the 
balance  in  one,  two,  and  three  years." 

"  Debt,  debt !  Bad,  Mrs.  Glasgow,  bad  !  "  said 
Mr.  Conway. 

"Not  so  bad  as  starvation,  sir,  or  the  break 
ing  up  of  my  family,  and  the  scattering  of  my 
children  among  strangers.  The  profits  of  the 
school  are  good ;  and  I  feel  myself  competent 
for  the  place." 

"  And  the  five  hundred  dollars  are  in  the  way, 
madam?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Haven't  you  friends  in  L who  can  raise 

the  amount  for  you  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Hum  —  m  —  m  !  "  Mr.  Conway  looked  down 
at  the  floor.  "Five  hundred  dollars  is  a  good 
deal  of  money,  ma'am."  He  didn't  say,  "To 
throw  away ; "  but  the  words  were  in  his 
thoughts,  and  Mrs.  Glasgow  knew  it,  from  his 
tone  and  manner.  It  seemed  like  a  desecration 
of  her  husband's  memory,  to  bring  it  in  between 
herself  and  this  man  as  an  incentive  for  him  to 
give  the  help  of  which  sre  stood  so  much  in 
need. 


HE    LOST    HIS    REWARD.  93 

•*  I  know  it  is,  sir,"  she  answered,  rising  again, 
and,  this  time,  passing  quickly  across  the  room, 
and  escaping  through  the  door  ere  he  had  time 
to  intercept  her. 

"  Has  the  woman  really  gone  ?  "  said  Mr.  Con- 
way,  in  a  fretful,  annoyed  manner,  as  he  stood 
alone  in  the  parlor.  "  I  hardly  expected  to  get 
rid  of  her  so  easily  as  this.  Five  hundred  dol 
lars  !  It's  lucky  for  me  that  I  hadn't  many 
college  friends,  if  all  their  wives  are  to  come 
down  on  me  after  this  fashion.  Glasgow  was 
clever  enough  in  his  way ;  and  I  liked  him. 
Dead !  Poor  fellow !  I  wish  he'd  been  more 
thrifty.  Left  five  children  in  a  state  of  desti 
tution.  Pity  they  hadn't  died  with  him.  As 
for  his  widow,  she  seems  pretty  high-strung. 
But  I'm  rid  of  her,  thank  fortune ! " 

Not  so  well  rid  of  hor  as  he  supposed.  Mr. 
Conway  was  a  man  of  large  fortune,  and  five 
hundred  dollars  added  or  subtracted  from  his 
bunk  account  could  in  no  way  affect  his  happi 
ness,  except  as  it  touched  his  love  of  money, 
which  was  strong;  but  five  hundred  dollars  to 
the  widow  was  a  matter  of  almost  infinite  im- 


94  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

portance.  In  spite  of  his  efforts  to  push  the 
thought  of  her,  and  the  five  little  children  of  his 
old  friend,  from  his  inind,  it  kept  constantly 
returning  to  him ;  and  with  the  thought  came 
the  pressure  of  considerations  connected  with 
the  case,  that  made  it  almost  impossible  for  Mr. 
Conway  to  pass  it  by.  So,  on  the  next  day,  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  a  friend  in  L ,  making  in 
quiries  in  a  confidential  way  about  Mrs.  Glasgow. 
The  answer  confirmed  all  she  had  said,  and 
closed  by  saying,  that  if  he  could  help  her  in 
any  way,  it  would  be  a  real  charity. 

Now  if  this  letter  had  spoken  lightly  of  her, 
or  conveyed  an  unfavorable  impression,  Mr. 
Conway  would  have  felt  pleasure  in  the  fact, 
as  releasing  him  from  the  pressure  of  an  obliga 
tion  in  the  case,  which  impelled  him  to  do  a 
thing  that  went  entirely  across  the  grain. 

"  Confound  the  woman  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Con- 
way,  a  few  days  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter, 
as  he  sat  thinking  over  Mrs.  Glasgow's  visit,  and 
the  information  she  had  then  given  him  in  regard 
to  her  situation.  "  Confound  the  woman  !  What 
possessed  her  to  come  to  me?  I  shall  have  to 


HE    LOST    HIS    REWARD.  95 

lend  her  —  or.,  in  other  words,  give  —  the  five 
hundred  dollars,  and  the  thing  might  as  well  be 
done  at  once." 

So  Mr.  Co  11  way  drew  a  check  for  the  sura  that 
has  been  mentioned,  and  enclosed  it  to  Mrs. 
Glasgow,  with  this  brief  note  :  — 

"  DEAR  MADAM  :  I  enclose  you  a  check  for 
five  hundred  dollars,  the  amount  required  to 
secure  the  school  of  which  you  spoke  to  me.  1 
trust  it  is  in  good  time. 

"Yours,  respectfully, 

"THOMPSON    CONWAY." 

"There,"  he  said,  as  he  sealed  and  directed 
this  note ;  "  I've  done  my  part.  She's  a  high- 
strung  lady  ;  perhaps  she  will  return  the  check. 
Let  her.  I  rather  hope  she  will." 

The  cold,  unsympathizing  letter  was  penned 
with  this  covert  wish  in  his  heart.  He  meant 
that  it  should  be  as  a  gulf  between  them,  making 
impossible  all  future  approaches  from  the  widow. 
He  helped  her  in  her  great  need,  but  laid  upon 
her,  at  the  same  time,  purposely,  an  cpprcssive 
sense  of  obligation. 


96  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

The  check  was  not  returned.  In  this  Mr. 
Conway  was  disappointed.  On  the  third  day 
after  sending  it  came  an  acknowledgment  of  its 
receipt,  in  these  words  :  — 

"THOMPSON  CONWAY,  ESQ. 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  I  have  your  favor  enclosing  a 
check  for  five  hundred  dollars.  My  first  impulse 
was  to  return  it,  for  I  know  that  you  send  it 
under  constraint ;  and  had  not  the  dear  faces  of 
my  fatherless  children  looked  into  mine  at  the 
moment,  admonishing  me  not  to  push  aside  the 
help  that  God  had  placed  in  my  way,  I  should 
have  acted  on  that  impulse.  I  thank  you  for 
the  timely  aid,  and  will  restore  the  sum  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment,  which  lies  not,  I  trust, 
very  far  away  in  tho  future.  I  wish,  sir,  for 
your  sake  and  for  mine,  that  you  had  laid  me 
under  this  great  obligation  in  a  different  spirit, 
so  that  my  heart  could  have  blessed  you  as  a 
generous  benefactor,  and  the  old  memory  of  you 
rested  pleasantly  side  by  side  with  the  memory 
of  my  beloved  husband.  Ah,  sir,  it  has  been 
well  said  that  the  manner  of  conferring  an 


HE    LOST    HIS    REWARD.  97 

obligation  often  takes  away  the  sense  of  obliga 
tion.  It  is  so,  to  a  great  extent,  in  the  present 
case.  I  take  the  money  as  from  God,  —  not 
really  from  you,  —  and  give  to  him  my  tearful 
thanks. 

"Yours,  &c., 

"ADALINE  GLASGOW." 

"Insult!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Conway,  throwing 
the  letter  from  him  into  the  fire.  "  A  base  in 
sult  !  I  thought  myself  a  weak  fool  when  I  sent 
the  money,  and  now  I  know  it."  He  did  not 
get  over  his  anger  for  that  day,  nor  for  many 
days ;  and  always,  afterwards,  the  thought  of 
Mrs.  Glasgow,  and  the  benefit  he  had  conferred 
upon  her,  produced  unpleasant  feelings. 

The  timely  receipt  of  five  hundred  dollars 
enabled  Mrs.  Glasgow  to  secure  the  proprietor 
ship  of  the  seminary,  which  she  conducted  with 
so  much  intelligence,  judgment,  and  skill,  that 
its  reputation  advanced  under  her  administra 
tion,  and,  by  the  end  of  two  years,  she  was  in 
a  condition  to  cancel  the  debt  to  Mr.  Conway. 
That  gentleman  had  been  kept  advised,  froi 

time  to  time,  by  the  friend  in  L to  whou 

7 


98  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

he  had  written,  making  inquiries  about  Mrs. 
Glasgow,  of  the  widow's  success. 

"You  never  did  a  truer  act  of  charity  in  your 
life  than  when  you  helped  this  excellent  lady," 
wrote  his  friend  on  one  occasion.  Then,  such 
remarks  as  these  were  contained  in  his  letters : 
"Her  orphaned  children  will  have  cause  to  bless 
you,  as  their  benefactor,  so  long  as  they  live."  — 
"It  was  a  generous  thing  in  you,  Mr.  Conway." 
— "  The  memory  of  such  deeds  is,  in  the  mind,  a 
perennial  spring  of  satisfaction."  —  "Good  acts 
are  heaven-invested  treasure.'"  —  "You  will  have 
your  reward,  not  only  in  this  world,  but  in  the 
world  to  come." 

But  all  these  sentences  were  as  gall  to  the 
heart  of  Mr.  Conway.  He  felt  them  as  mock 
ery,  and  rejected  them  with  impatience.  Ho 
had  not  helped  the  widow  from  kindness  of 
feeling,  but  from  the  pressure  of  constraint. 
Circumstances  had  so  shaped  themselves  that 
he  could  not  well  avoid  doing  what  he  had 
done ;  and,  instead  of  pleasure  in  the  deed,  he 
felt  only  bitterness  and  anger.  A  little  over 
two  years  from  the  time  he  had  so  ungraciously 


HE     LOST     HIS     REWARD.  99 

helped  the  widow  of  his  old  friend,  came  a  letter 
from  her  enclosing  the  sum  he  had  loaned  her, 
interest  added.  She  wrote  thus  :  — 

"DEAR  SIR:  At  last,  under  the  blessing  of 
One  who  is  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 
I  am  cable  to  return  you  the  money  loaned  me 
over  two  years  ago.  It  has  been  of  great  ser 
vice  —  more  than  I  shall  ever  be  able  to 
express  in  words.  I  thank  you  for  the  timely 
aid.  God  has  made  you  the  instrument  of  good 
beyond  what  you  will  ever  know,  and  I  pray 
that  he  may  reward  you  with  sweet  remem 
brances. 

«  Gratefully, 

"  ADALINE  GLASGOW." 

• 

"Stuff!  cant!"  said  Mr.  Con  way,  tossing  the 
letter  from  him  with  an  impatient  manner. 
Then,  crushing  the  draft  which  it  had  contained, 
with  the  grasp  of  a  man  who  felt  that  he  had 
something  real  in  possession,  he  added,  "I  never 
expected  to  see  this  again." 

Did  he  feel  comfortable?  How  was  that  pos 
sible?  He  had  his  money  biu.'k,  yet  the  blessing 


100  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

of  a  good  deed  came  not  as  his  reward.  Interest 
had  been  added.  But  what  were  sixty  dollars 
to  the  imperishable  memories  that  might  have 
been  his  —  memories  like  living  springs  of  pleas 
ure  to  his  soul?  God  had  made  him  the  unwill 
ing  instrument  of  good ;  and  his  unwillingness 
had  robbed  him  of  his  reward. 

Mr.  Couway'g  case  is  only  an  illustration.  \y\) 
are  all  made  instruments  of  good  to  others  in 
some  degree.  Alas,  for  us,  if,  like  him,  we  lose 
our  reward  I 


GRANDPA    AND    HIS    DARLING.       101 


VII. 

GRANDPA  AND   HIS  DARLING. 

"I  DON'T  believe,  grandpa,  you  ever  did  see 
anything  so  sweet.  It's  got  blue  eyes,  and  they 
open  and  shut;  and  its  hair  is  real,  and  curls 
all  over  its  head.  O,  it's  lovely  !  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  grandpa.  "  I've 
seen  a  great  many  sweet  and  lovely  things  in 
my  time." 

*'  O,  but  nothing  so  sweet  as  Fanny's  doll, 
grandpa  I  Nobody  ever  did  see  anything  sweeter 
than  that." 

"I  did  once,  I  know,"  answered  grandpa, 
speaking  so  confidently  that  little  Florry  looked 
up  into  his  face,  and  said,  — 

"Tell  me  about  it,  won't  you?" 

"  It's  just  four  years  since  I  first  saw  it." 

"  O,  that's  a  great  while  ago,  grandpa.  As 
long  as  four  Christmases." 

"  Four  times  as  long  as  from  one  Christmas  to 
another,  you  mean." 


102  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"  I  s'pose  so ;  you  know  how  to  say  it  best, 
grandpa." 

"  You  think  it  a  long  time  from  one  Christmas 
to  another  ?  " 

"  O,  dear,  yes  !  It's  a  dreadful  long  time  ! 
'Twon't  never  come  again,  seems  to  me." 

"  Just  as  surely  as  my  little  girl  lives,  will 
Christmas  be  along  by  and  by ;  so  she  must  wait 
patiently.  There  is  something  good  for  her  in 
every  day ;  something  to  make  her  happy ;  and 
if  she  enjo}Ts  every  day's  good  things  as  she  re 
ceives  them,  she  will  be  the  happier  at  Christmas 
when  it  comes." 

"And  now  tell  me  what  you  saw  four  years 
ago,"  said  Florry,  laying  her  head  down  against 
her  grandfather,  to  listen. 

"  Well,  you  shall  hear  all  about  it.  ft  had 
blue  eyes,  and  they  opened  and  shut,  and  its 
hair  was  real,  and  curled  all  over  its  head;  and 
it  was  just  a  hundred  times  sweeter  than  Fanny's 
doll." 

"O,  grandpa!  It  must  have  been  a  real  livo 
baby  !"  cried  Florry,  starting  up. 

"So  it  was;  a  real  live  baby.     Its  blue  eyes 


GRANDPA    AND    HIS    DARLING.      103 

were  so  clear  ahd  bright,  that  you  could  see  your 
own  face  in  them;  its  cheeks  were  softer  than 
any  velvet,  and  the  bloom  on  them  purer  than 
the  bloom  on  apple  blossoms ;  and  its  mouth  — 
O,  its  mouth  was  so  sweet,  that  we  troubled  the 
darling  with  our  many  kisses  !  And  such  dear 
little  hands  !  One  said  they  were  like  crumpled 
rose  leaves,  and  another  called  them  pink  shells ; 
but  they  were  something  more  than  rose  leaves 
or  pink  shells  to  me  when  they  clasped  them 
selves  around  my  fingers,  and  I  felt  the  warm 
love  in  them  running  away  to  my  heart." 

And  when  grandpa  said  this,  he  could  not 
help  putting  his  arms  around  Florry,  and  hug 
ging  her  ever  so  tightly. 

"Had  it  any  name?"  asked  Florry. 

"O,  yes.  We  gave  it  a  name.  We  called 
it  —  " 

"What,  grandpa?" 

"Florry." 

"  0,  dear  !    It  was  me,  then  !    I  was  the  baby  !  " 

"  Yes,  darling.  Four  years  ago  the  good 
Lord  gave  you  to  us  as  a  little  helpless  baby, 
but  so  sweet  and  pure  that  just  to  look  at  you 


104  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

was  to  have  our  hearts  filled  with  love.  Now, 
do  you  know  why  he  let  you  be  born  into  the 
world?" 

"  That  I  might  be  good,  and  go  to  heaven?  Is 
that  it,  grandpa?" 

"Yes.     But  what  is  heaven ?" 

"  It's  away  up  where  God  lives  with  the  angels, 
isn't  it?" 

"God  is  everywhere,"  said  grandpa.  "He  is 
right  near  to  us  now,  though  we  can't  see  him. 
And  so  are  his  angels." 

A  look  of  wonder  came  into  Florry's  face ; 
then  it  grew  serious.  Her  eyes  wandered  out 
of  the  window,  and  over  the  fields  and  water  and 
hills  beyond,  and  then  came  back  to  her  grandpa. 
It  wasn't  all  clear  to  her.  She  had  heard  many 
times  of  God,  and  heaven,  and  the  angels ;  but 
had  always  thought  of  them  as  afar  off,  or  up  very 
high. 

"Is  heaven  all  around  us,  grandpa?"  she 
asked,  almost  holding  her  breath. 

"  God  is  everywhere  present,  and  his  angels 
dwell  with  him,  and  round  about  him." 

Still  the  child  looked  puzzled.  It  was  more 
than  she  could  take  in. 


GRANDPA    AND    HIS    DARLING.        105 

"  You  are  too  little  to  understand  about  this," 
grandpa  said.  "  When  you  are  older  it  will  be 
all  plain.  Only  think  of  God  as  always  near 
you ;  and  think  of  him  as  a  kind  and  loving 
Father,  who  wrants  you  to  be  good,  so  that  you 
can  be  happy  ;  for  only  the  good  are  happy." 

Florry  again  leaned  her  head  back  upon  her 
grandpa's  bosom,  and  he  laid  his  hand  in  among 
the  curls  of  sunny  hair ;  and  so  they  sat  by  the 
open  window,  in  through  which  the  soft  June 
airs  came,  both  thinking  of  heaven  and  the 
angels,  and  both  so  near  to  them  that  a  deep 
peace,  passing  all  understanding,  rested  on  theii 
souls. 


106  THE    PEACEMAKER. 


VIII. 

UNFORGOTTEN  WRONG. 

IT  is  remarkable  how  few  persons,  in  regulat 
ing  their  conduct  towards  others,  take  memory 
into  account  —  memory,  that  fixes  states  of 
mind  into  permanent  conditions.  Intensity  of 
feeling  may  be  said  to  be  the  measure  of  im 
pressions  which  remain ;  and  few  feelings  are 
more  intense  than  those  created  by  the  infliction 
of  wrong. 

Upon  young  persons,  and  those  in  humble 
stations,  these  wounds,  that  rankle  in  the  mem 
ory,  are  ofteuest  inflicted.  It  rarely  seems  to 
occur  to  those  who  give  them,  that  the  young 
attain  maturity  in  a  few  years,  and  take  their 
places  in  society  as  men  and  women,  often  pros 
perous  and  powerful.  Nor  does  it  occur  to  them 
that  the  memory  of  wrong  will  not  die. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Marcus  Williams, 
a  gentleman  past  middle  life,  who  sat  sober  and 


UNFORGOTTEN    WRONG.  1Q7 

thoughtful  at  his  desk,  on  which,  among  other 
papers  and  letters,  was  a  note  from  his  lawyer. 
"  Why  should  he  be  so  bitter  against  me  ?  Why 
should  he  set  his  heel  upon  me,  and  in  so  vin 
dictive  a  spirit?  What  wrong  have  I  done  to 
the  man?" 

He  opened  the  note,  and  read  it  a  second  time. 

"I  regret  to  say,"  it  ran,  "that  Mr.  Konig 
proves  to  be  wholly  impracticable.  Nothing 
whatever  can  be  done  with  him.  He  will  sign 
nothing — concede  nothing  —  talks  only  of  the 
pound  of  flesh.  Unfortunately,  he  holds  a  con 
siderable  amount  of  your  paper,  which,  in  some 
cases,  as  I  happen  to  be  informed,  he  has  bought 
within  a  week  from  parties  to  whom  you  gave 
it,  at  from  sixty  to  seventy  cents  on  the  dollar. 
The  whole  of  this  he  is  determined  to  press  to 
judgment.  If  the  claims  held  by  him  were 
small,  the  other  creditors,  all  of  whom  are 
friendly  and  reasonable,  would  consent  to  his 
being  bought  off,  or  secured,  so  that  your  busi 
ness  could  be  saved.  But,  as  matters  now  stand, 
I  don't  see  anything  short  of  a.  general  assign 
ment." 


108  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

Mr.  Williams  drooped  his  head,  and  sat  fo 
some  time  in  a  half-paralyzed  state  of  mind. 
He  was  in  the  toils  of  a  cruel  man,  and  saw  no 
way  of  escape.  But  why  should  Mr.  Konig  thus 
seek  his  ruin?  Only  a  faint  remembrance  of 
him,  as  a  .young  man  in  the  store  of  a  merchant 
with  whom  he  had  dealings  many  years  before, 
remained  with  Mr.  Williams.  A  shade  of  some 
thing  unpleasant  dimmed  this  remembrance  ;  but 
the  recollection  of  any  circumstance  that  could 
throw  a  shade  it  was  impossible  to  recall.  His 
next  observation  of  him  was  as  commission  mer 
chant  on  the  wharf,  in  copartnership  with  the 
son  of  his  former  employer.  After  this  he  was 
thrown  into  contact  with  him  occasionally ;  but 
Konig  always  maintained  a  distant  air,  never 
smiled  when  it  became  necessary  to  hold  brief 
personal  intercourse  in  the  way  of  business,  and 
had  a  coldness  of  manner  that  invariably  repelled. 
All  this  had  aifected  Mr.  Williams  unpleasantly  ; 
but  he  set  it  down  to  the  score  of  temperament, 
not  personal  feeling. 

Now  it  flashed  upon  him  that  enmity  lay  be 
neath  all  this.      Why,  else,  should  the  man  seek 


UNFORGOTTEN    WRONG.  109 

to  get  him  into  his  power,  in  order  to  destroy 
him?  Mr.  Williams  dwelt  on  this  new  phase 
which  his  trouble  had  assumed,  looking  at  it 
from  all  sides,  and  trying  to  comprehend  its 
meaning.  Carefully  did  he  search  through  his 
memory  for  some  incident  that  might  have  been 
misconstrued ;  but  on  no  leaf  in  his  book  could 
he  find  the  record  of  such  an  incident ;  and  he 
closed  it  in  doubt  and  perplexity. 

"I  will  see  him,"  was  the  first  conclusion  to 
which  Mr.  Williams  came.  Pride,  and  a  native 
sense  of  independence,  held  him  a  long  time 
back  from  this  determination.  But  Mr.  Wil 
liams  was  a  man  in  whom  reason  was  the  con 
trolling  power ;  a  man  of  self-discipline,  and 
great  moral  vigor.  Whatever  he  saw  to  be  right, 
that  he  compelled  himself  to  do,  in  the  face  of 
pleading  weakness  or  writhing  pain. 

"  If  I  have,  at  any  time,  unwittingly  injured 
or  wronged  him,  and  his  present  course  is  stimu 
lated  by  revenge,  it  is  best  for  both  of  us  that 
I  should  know  it,  and  offer  sudi  atonement  as 
may  be  in  my  power.  If  a  spirit  of  vindictive- 
ness  lie  at  the  bottom  of  his  action  now,  that 


HO  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

spirit  will  hurt  him  more  vitally  than  any  exter 
nal  injury  he  may  work  upon  me ;  and  so  there 
rests  on  me  a  double  responsibility.  If  I  can 
save  him  from  acts  inspired  by  an  evil  will,  and 
myself  and  others  from  the  consequences  of  those 
acts,  every  just  and  humane  consideration  im 
pels  me  to  make  the  effort,  and  I  will  do  it." 

And  so,  forcing  back  all  the  specious  reason 
ings  of  pride,  Mr.  Williams  took  an  early  oppor 
tunity  to  see  Mr.  Konig.  He  found  him  alone 
in  the  parlor  of  his  own  house.  It  was  evening. 
He  had  chosen  the  place  and  the  time,  because 
he  hoped  thus  to  secure  a  more  favorable  state 
of  mind  than  would  be  possible  during  a  busi 
ness  hour,  and  with  business  surrouudings.  To 
his  question,  "Is  Mr.  Konig  at  home?"  the  ser 
vant  had  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  shown 
him  into  one  of  the  parlors,  where  he  found  the 
man  who  had  assumed  towards  him  the  attitude 
of  an  enemy. 

The  surprised  "  Good  evening,  sir ! "  of  Mr. 
Konig  was  almost  savage  in  its  repellent  cold 
ness.  From  an  instinct  of  good  breeding,  Mr. 
Williams  extended  his  hand ;  but  it  was  not 
taken. 


UNFORGOTTEN    WRONG.  HI 

"Well,  sir?"  The  voice  of  Mr.  Konig  was 
sharply  imperative. 

"  I  have  called  to  ask  a  few  questions,"  said 
Mr.  Williams.  His  voice,  weak  on  the  first  two 
or  three  words,  was  cairn  and  firm,  yet  courte 
ous,  in  completing  the  sentence. 

"Sit  down,  sir,"  growled  Mr.  Konig,  pushing 
a  chair  towards  his  visitor. 

The  chair  was  taken,  and  the  two  men  sat 
down,  facing  each  other. 

"  Have  I  ever  wronged  or  offended  yon  in  any 
thing,  Mr.  Konig?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  was  the  sternly  spoken  answer. 
Revenge  flashed  from  the  man's  eyes. 

"When?" 

"  When  !     Have  you  forgotten  ?  " 

Mr.  Williams  dropped  his  eyes,  and  searched 
back  through  his  memory. 

"If  I  had  ever  meditated  wrong  against  you, 
Mr.  Konig,  I  could  not  have  forgotten.  As  it 
is,  I  remember  nothing.  Speak  out  plainly." 

"  You  are  twenty  years  my  senior,"  said  Mr. 
Konig. 

"Probably." 


112  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"Twenty  years  ago  I  was  a  poor  young  man, 
and  you  a  man  of  property.  I  was  obscure  and 
humble;  you  on  the  top  wave  of  prosperity. 
And  you  treated  me  with  arrogance  and  con 
tempt —  pushed  me  aside  with  a  sneering  super 
ciliousness,  the  humiliation  of  which  has  never 
for  an  hour  been  forgotten  or  forgiven.  I  said 
that,  sooner  or  later  in  life,  my  time  would 
eome ;  and  I  have  waited  and  looked  for  it 
through  many  years.  Even  boys  can  feel,  sir. 
And  the  stung  spirit  of  a  proud  and  sensitive 
boy  never  loses  consciousness  of  the  smart.  I 
have  meant  to  pay  you  back,  sir;  to  punish  a 
wanton  outrage ;  to  teach  you  a  lesson  that 
would  last." 

A  cruel  triumph  sat  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Konig. 

"  Will  you  give  the  occasion?  I  am  wholly  at 
fault." 

Mr.  Williams  was  self-possessed,  mild,  and 
firm. 

"Twenty  years  ago,  you  passed  an  evening 
at  the  house  of  Mr.  Baldwin.  Is  that  occasion 
remembered  ?  " 

After  thinking  back  for  some  moments,  Mr. 
Williams  said  "  Yes." 


UNFORGOTTEN    WRONG.  113 

"I  was  there,"  said  Mr.  Konig. 

"  I  do  not  remember." 

u  But  I  do ;  and  that  was  the  occasion  on 
which  I  received  an  insult  from  your  hands! 
which  stung  me  almost  to  madness.  It  went 
down  to  the  quick,  sir  —  hurt  deeply  —  fes 
tered  ;  and  has  never  healed  over." 

"I  am  pained  to  hear  this,"  replied  Mr.  Wil 
liams  ;  "  and  do  solemnly  affirm,  that  I  never 
entertained  an  unkind  feeling  towards  you,  and 
cannot  now  recall  the  circumstance  to  which  you 
refer.  Your  feelings,  at  the  time,  must  certainly 
have  magnified  an  unintentional  offence,  and 
given  it  too  dark  a  color." 

"No,  sir.  The  insult  was  designed,  and  I 
took  it  as  it  was  meant." 

"  Will  you  repeat  what  then  occurred  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  and  1,  Mr.  Baldwin,  and  the 
President  of  the  Union  Bank,  were  conversing 
on  the  subject  of  finance.  Mr.  Baldwin  favored 
a  National  Bank  as  the  only  means  through 
which  we  would  ever  get  a  stable  currency  and 
uniform  exchange.  You  and  Bourdon,  who 
8 


114  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

was  then  President  of  the  Union  Bank,  took  the 
other  side  of  the  question,  and  against  a  govern 
ment  bank.  Now,  though  quite  a  young  man, 
I  had  read  and  thought  a  great  deal  on  this  sub 
ject,  and  was  better  posted  than  most  men  of 
twice  my  years.  And  so  it  was  natural,  and 
perfectly  proper,  that  I  should  give  my  opinion, 
which  I  did,  with  some  of  that  ardor  natural  to 
young  men.  As  I  pushed  aside,  with  facts  and 
figures,  one  of  your  feeble  assumptions,  you 
turned  short  upon  me  with  these  cutting  sen 
tences —  I  remember  every  word,  and  the  depre 
ciating  contempt  of  your  manner,  as  you  waved 
towards  me  an  impatient  hand:  'Too  deep 
water  for  you,  my  young  friend !  Take  my 
advice,  and  study  Gouge,  Gallatin,  and  Raguet 
for  six  months  or  a  year.  By  that  time,  you 
will  be  less  self-asserting  and  opinionated.' 
And  with  these  words,  you  turned  off  with  a 
superior  air,  went  on  talking  with  the  other  two 
gentlemen,  and  manifested  as  little  regard  for 
me  as  if  I  had  not  been  present.  I  tell  you,  sir, 
the  arrow  went  deep,  and  the  barb  has  not  beeu 
extracted ! " 


UNFORGOTTEN    WRONG.  H5 

" May  I  extract  it  now?"  said  Mr.  Williams, 
in  a  subdued  voice,  as  he  arose  from  his  chair, 
and  looked  down  upon  a  face  that  was  dark 
with  anger,  and  quivering  from  remembered 
pain. 

"You  cannot !  "  was  sternly  answered. 

"  Say  not  so.  I  may  extract  the  barb,  though 
I  fail  to  heal  the  wound ;  and  that  will  be  some 
thing  in  the  line  of  reparation.  I  do  not  remem 
ber  to  have  used  the  language  just  repeated  ;  but 
I  will  not  question  the  exactness  of  your  report. 
Twenty  years  ago  I  was  less  considerate  of 
others  —  less  careful  of  their  feelings  —  than  I 
have  since  learned  to  be.  If  excited  by  opposi 
tion,  I  was  apt  to  speak  with  little  choice  of 
words.  Time  has  taught  mo  better,  and  brought 
many  sober  hours  in  reviewing  the  past.  We 
are  all  weak  at  some  point,  Mr.  Konig ;  each  of 
us,  like  St.  Paul,  has  an  easily  besetting  sin ; 
and  when,  from  wrong  acts,  all  that  is  left  to 
us  is  confession  and  repentance,  shall  we  grant- 
less  to  each  other  than  we  hope  to  receive  from 
God?" 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence 


116  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

for  nearly  a  minute.  Konig  was  hard,  proud, 
and  revengeful.  For  years  he  had  nursed  the 
hope  of  one  day  getting  Williams  in  his  power, 
and  requiting  him  tenfold  for  what  he  had  suf 
fered,  and  he  was  loath,  now,  to  give  up 
the  sweet  morsel  that  was  rolling  under  his 
tongue. 

"Let  me  leave  you  with  this  thought,"  said 
Mr.  Williams,  seeing  that  no  reply  was  medi 
tated.  "If  we  punish  vindictively  a  wrong 
done  to  us  under  the  blind  impulse  of  sudden 
feeling,  do  we  not  go  below,  instead  of  rising 
in  true  manliness  above,  our  adversary?  Is  not 
loss  to  ourselves,  instead  of  gain,  involved?" 

Still  there  was  no  answer.  Mr.  Williams 
moved  towards  the  door.  Konig  sat  with  his 
hard  eyes  now  withdrawn  from  the  other's  face, 
and  cast  upon  the  floor.  The  calm  dignity 
shown  by  Mr.  Williams,  even  in  the  acknowl 
edgment  of  wrong,  was  having  its  effect.  He 
stood  before  his  enemy  in  a  new  light,  and 
showed  a  quality  of  soul  that  rebuked  him. 

"You  have  me  in  your  power,  Mr.  Konig," 
said  Mr.  Williams,  as  he  stood  with  the  partly 


UNFOliGOTTEN     WRONG.  117 

opened  door  in  his  hand.  "For  myself,  I  do 
not  ask  your  mercy.  But  others  must  be  in 
volved  in  the  ruin  you  meditate.  No  man 
stands  alone  in  this  world,  and  no  man  can 
be  stricken  down  without  many  staggering  un 
der  the  blow  that  prostrates  him.  Worse  than 
all  will  be  the  hurt  to  your  own  life,  if,  under 
the  motive  of  revenge,  you  pursue  the  course 
adopted.  And  so,  I  pray  you,  forbear!" 

Mr.  Konig  sat  alone.  His  visitor  had  de 
parted.  The  interview  had  not  left  him  in  a 
calmer  state.  Instead  of  this,  a  strange  tumult 
had  taken  possession  of  his  mind.  There  was 
war  in  his  members.  Right  impulses  were 
struggling  with  evil  passions ;  a  long  meditated 
triumph  was  finding  obstruction  in  the  very 
hour  of  sweet  fruition.  Even  as  he  lifted  his 
hand  to  pluck  and  taste  the  tempting  fruit, 
which,  in  ripening,  had  so  pleased  his  eyes  and 
filled  him  with  anticipated  joy,  a  voice  of  warn 
ing  came  to  his  ear,  and  the  word  "  Forbear !  " 
held  him,  half  surprised,  half  fearful,  back  from 
the  pulpy  clusters. 

All  through  the   remainder  of  that   evening, 


118  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

all  through  the  nearly  sleepless  night  that  suc 
ceeded,  the  strife  went  on.  In  the  stillness  of 
later  hours,  ere  daylight  broke,  his  perturbed 
soul  found  rest,  and,  when  awakened  by  the 
kiss  of  morning,  a  spirit  of  forgiveness  was  in 
his  heart ;  and  not  only  a  spirit  of  forgiveness, 
but  a  sense  of  shame  —  shame  for  the  cruel 
wrong  he  had  sought  to  inflict  out  of  revenge 
for  an  insult  given  twenty  years  before,  in  a 
moment  of  excited  feeling. 

"Mr.  Konig  has  withdrawn  all  opposition  to 
the  arrangement,  and  will  •  come  in  with  the 
other  creditors." 

Mr.  Williams  read  these  lines  in  a  note  from 
his  lawyer  twice,  to  make  sure  of  their  mean 
ing.  What  a  sense  of  relief  followed !  He 
had  been  for  hours  in  the  face  of  great  peril, 
with  no  means  of  escape  in  view.  In  a  moment 
of  time,  unheralded,  relief  came,  and  he  stood 
in  safety. 

"Wrong,  wrong,"  —  so  he  talked  with  himself, 
—  "  how  inevitable  are  thy  retributions  !  Acts, 
whether  good  or  evil,  become  living  powers, 


UNEOKGOTTEN    WRONG.  H9 

which,  moving  by  inherent  laws  in  a  circle, 
return  to  bless  or  curse  the  actors.  If,  in  our 
entrance  upon  life  we  comprehended  this,  what 
pains  and  repentances,  what  losses,  and  suffer 
ings,  might  be  saved  I " 


120  THE    PEACEMAKER. 


IX. 

AS  WE  FORGIVE  OUR  DEBTORS. 

WHEN  a  mere  lad,  we  were  struck  with  the 
remark  of  an  eminent  physician,  and  have 
thought  of  it  hundreds  of  times  since.  His 
collector,  in  making  returns,  reported  as  value 
less  an  account  against  a  gentleman  who  had 
recently  failed  in  business. 

"The  bill  is  good  for  nothing,"  said  the  col 
lector.  M has  sunk  everything,  and  is 

now  with  his  family  on  the  world,  penniless." 

The  physician  took  the  bill,  quietly  tore  it  in 
pieces,  and  then,  turning  to  the  unfortunate 
debtor's  account,  wrote  across  it,  "  Settled." 

"  Rather  a  losing  business  that,"  remarked  the 
collector. 

"  1  hope  to  be  able  to  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  as 
long  as  I  live,"  was  the  physician's  calm  reply. 
'"Forgive  us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debt 
ors.'  When  we  say  that  prayer,  my  friend,  it 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUR    DEBTORS.      121 

behooves  us  to  look  into  our  hearts,  and  ask 
ourselves  how  we  forgive  our  debtors.  '  With 
what  measure  ye  mete  it  shall  be  measured  to 
you  again.' " 

Yes,  hundreds  of  times  since  then,  in  our 
world-experience  and  contact  with  men,  have 
we  thought  of  that  physician's  remark.  But 
very  few  have  we  met,  who,  like  him,  could 
say  the  Lord's  Prayer  without  asking  for  a 
curse  instead  of  a  blessing;  for,  if  the  Lord 
forgave  their  debts  as  they  forgive  their  debtors, 
their  chances  of  eternal  salvation  would  not  be 
worth  the  fraction  of  a  mite. 

This  defect  of  forgiveness  is  not  confined  to 
the  non-professor  —  to  him  whose  lips  repeat 
not  daily  the  holy  words  of  that  holy  petition. 
So  far  as  our  experience  and  observation  go, 
they  who  profess  to  have  "had  much  forgiven, 
because  they  had  sinned  much,"  are  as  rigid  in 
their  exaction  of  the  uttermost  farthing,  as  the 
men  who  assume  no  sanctity  of  life  or  conver 
sation.  We  speak  here  in  general  terms.  There 
are  noble  exceptions  in  both  classes;  but  not, 
\ve  are  inclined  to  believe,  in  one  more  than  in 


122  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

the  other.  With  an  individual  of  the  former 
class  we  have  now  to  deal.  We  do  not  intend 
to  be  hard  with  him ;  we  shall  not  exaggerate 
his  defects;  for  his  purposes  are  good,  and, 
when  he  sees  what  is  evil,  he  honestly  strives 
to  overcome  it.  But  self-love  and  self-interest 
blind  us  all.  They  blinded  Mr.  Harvey  Green, 
notwithstanding  he  had  passed  from  "death  unto 
life,"  and  had  the  evidence  of  the  change  in  the 
fact  that  he  "  loved  the  brethren." 

Harvey  Green  was  a  shrewd  man  of  business 
—  honest  in  all  his  dealings,  yet  ever  exacting 
his  own.  He  took  no  advantage  of  others,  and 
was  very  careful  not  to  let  others  take  advantage 
of  him.  While  acting  on  the  precept,  "Owe  no 
man  anything,"  he  never  lost  sight  of  a  debtor, 
nor  rested  while  the  obligation  remained  in 
force.  A  very  natural  result  was,  that  Harvey 
Green  prospered  in  the  things  of  this  world, — 
not  that  he  became  very  rich,  but  so  well  oft*  as 
to  leave  no  reasonable  want  unsupplied. 

It  so  happened,  a  few  years  ago,  that  a  man 
named  Wilkins,  after  an  unsuccessful  struggle 
with  fortune,  continued  through  six  or  seven 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUR    DEBTORS.      123 

years,  failed  in  business.  Few  men  had  toiled 
harder,  or  suffered  more ;  and  when,  at  last,  he 
yielded  to  the  pressure  of  iron  circumstances, 
he  sunk  down,  for  a  season,  prostrate  in  mind 
and  body.  Everything  that  he  had  was  given 
up  to  creditors,  —  the  property  paid  but  a  small 
percentage  on  their  claims,  —  and  then  he  went 
forth  into  the  world,  all  his  business  relations 
broken  up,  and,  under  the  heavy  disadvantage 
of  his  situation,  bravely  sought  to  gain  for  his 
large  dependent  family,  things  needful  to  their 
sustenance  and  growth  in  mind  and  body. 

Among  his  creditors  was  Green.  Now,  Wil- 
kins  belonged  to  the  same  church  that  numbered 
Green  among  its  members.  When  the  latter 
heard  of  the  failure  he  was  much  disturbed, 
although  the  sum  owed  him  was  not  above  four 
hundred  dollars.  On  reflection,  he  grew  more 
composed. 

"  Wilkins  is  an  honest  man,"  said  he  to  him 
self.  "He'll  pay  me,  sooner  or  later." 

It  did  not  take  long  to  sell  off,  at  a  ruinous 
sacrifice,  the  stock  of  goods  remaining  in  Iho 
hands  of  the  debtor,  for  he  threw  no  impediment 


124  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

in  the  way  of  those  who  sought  to  obtain  their 
due. 

"Ah,  my  friend,"  said  the  latter,  on  meeting 
with  Green  a  few  days  after  the  closing  up  of 
his  insolvent  estate,  "  this  is  a  sad  business ! 
But,  if  God  gives  me  strength,  I  will  pay  off 
every  dollar  of  this  debt  before  I  die.  An 
honest  man  can  never  sleep  soundly  while  he 
owes  his  neighbor  a  farthing." 

"  The  right  spirit,  brother  Wilkins  !  "  answered 
Green ;  "  the  right  spirit !  Hold  fast  to  that 
declaration,  and  all  will  come  out  straight  in 
the  end.  Though  I  can't  very  well  lie  out  of 
my  money,  yet  J  >vill  be  patient  until  you  are 
able  to  pay  ma.  I  always  said  you  were  an 
honest  man  ;  aiKl  £  am  sure  you  will  make  good 
my  words." 

"God  helping  me,  I  will,"  said  the  debtor. 
His  voice  trembled  and  his  eyes  grew  moist. 
O,  how  dark  all  looked  in  the  future  !  What 
a  cloud  was  on  his  path !  What  a  weight  of 
grief,  mortification,  and  despondency  on  his 
heart ! 

The  two  men  parted,  and  each  took  his  home- 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUR    DEBTORS.      125 

ward  way  — -  the  debtor  and  the  creditor.  The 
one  with  countenance  erect,  self-complacent 
feelings,  and  elastic  step ;  the  other  sad  and 
depressed. 

That  night  Mr.  Green  prayed  "Forgive  us  our 
debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors."  Yet  scarcely 
had  the  words  died  on  his  lips,  ere  he  was  musing 
on  the  chances  in  favor  of  his  ever  receiving 
from  the  penniless  Wilkins  the  few  hundred 
dollars  owed  him  by  that  unhappy  individual. 
There  was  no  sympathy  for  him  in  his  heart; 
no  thought  of  his  terrible  prostration  of  spirit ; 
nothing  of  pity  and  forgiveness.  A  selfish  re 
gard  for  his  own  interest  completely  absorbed 
all  humane  considerations. 

Time  passed  on.  Mr.  Wilkins  was  no  drone. 
An  earnest,  active  man,  he  soon  found  employ 
ment —  not  very  remunerative  at  first,  but  still 
sufficiently  so  to  enable  him  to  secure  many 
comforts  for  his  family,  and  to  provide  for  their 
education. 

One,  two,  three  years  glided  by.  With  the 
growth  of  his  children  his  expenses  increased, 
and  kept  so  close  a  tread  upon  his  income  that 


THE    PEACEMAKER. 

he  had  not  been  able  to  pay  oft'  any  of  the  old 
obligations ;  although  he  never  lost  sight  of 
them,  and  never  ceased  to  feel  troubled  on  ac 
count  of  their  existence. 

"O,  debt,  debt,  debt!"  he  would  often  sigh 
to  himself.  "  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  able 
to  say,  «I  owe  no  man  anything  ! '  But  witli  my 
large  family  and  limited  income,  what  hope  is 
there?" 

This  was  his  depressed  state  of  mind  one  day 
when  Mr.  Green  called  in  to  see  him.  Many 
times  before  this  the  unhappy  man  had  been 
reminded  of  his  debt. 

"Plow  are  you  getting  on?"  inquired  the 
creditor,  fixing  his  eyes  steadily  upon  poor  Mr. 
Wilkins,  who  felt  a  sense  of  suffocation,  and 
slightly  quailing  before  his  tyrant. 

"I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for,"  meekly 
answered  the  debtor.  "My  health  has  been 
good,  and  I  have  had  steady  employment." 

"  You  are  living  very  comfortably." 

"And  we  are  grateful  to  a  kind  Providence  for 
our  blessings." 

"  Your  salary  is  one  thousand  dollars  ?  " 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUR    DEBTORS.      127 

"  It  is  ;  and  I  have  six  children  to  support." 

"You  ought  to  save  something.  I've  been 
easy  with  you  a  long  time ;  it's  three  years  now, 
and  you  haven't  offered  me  one  cent.  If  you'd 
paid  me  five  or  ten  dollars  at  a  time,  the  debt 
would  have  been  lessened.  I  wish  you  would 
begin  to  make  some  arrangement.  You  ought 
to  save  at  least  two  hundred  dollars  from  your 
salary.  I  know  plenty  of  men  who  get  only 
eight  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and  have  as  large 
families  as  yours." 

The  eye  of  Mr.  Wilkins  dropped  wearily  to 
the  floor ;  he  felt  as  if  a  heavy  weight  had  been 
laid  upon  his  bosom.  He  made  no  reply,  for 
what  could  he  say? 

"I  have  always  upheld  you  as  an  honest  man," 
remarked  Green,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  implied 
an  awakening  doubt  as  to  whether  this  view  of 
the  debtor's  character  were  really  correct. 

"That  is  between  God  and  my  own  con 
science,"  said  Wilkins,  lifting  his  eyes  from  the 
floor,  and  looking  with  some  sternness  into  the 
face  of  his  persecuting  creditor. 

"For  your  own  sake,  I  trust  you  will  keep 


128  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

a  clear  conscience,"  returned  Green.  "As  for 
the  present  matter  between  us,  all  I  wish  to 
know  is,  whether  you  mean  to  pay  my  debt ; 
and  if  so,  when  I  may  expect  to  receive  some 
thing." 

"How  much  is  the  debt?"  asked  Wilkins. 

"It  was  three  hundred  and  seventy  dollars 
at  the  time  of  your  failure.  Interest  added,  it 
now  amounts  to  four  hundred  and  fifty,"  said 
Green. 

"  There  were  other  debts  besides  yours." 

"  Of  course  there  were  ;  but  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  them." 

"The  whole  amount  of  my  indebtedness  was 
twenty  thousand  dollars.  The  yearly  interest 
on  this  debt  is  more  than  my  whole  income. 
I  cannot  pay  even  the  interest,  much  less  the 
principal." 

"But  you  can  pay  my  small  claim  if  you  will ; 
you  could  have  paid  it  before  this  time  if  the 
disposition  had  existed.  You  talk  of  conscience  ; 
but  I'm  afraid,  brother  Wilkins,  in  your  case 
there  is  a  very  narrow  foundation  of  honesty  for 
conscience  to  rest  upon.  I  don't  put  much  faith 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUR    DEBTORS.      129 

in  the  professions  of  men  who  live  after  the 
fashion  you  live,  and  yet  refuse  to  pay  their 
debts.  I'm  a  plain-spoken  individual,  and  you 
now  have  my  mind  freely." 

The  tone  and  manner  of  the  creditor  were 
harsh  in  the  extreme. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Wilkins,  with  forced  calm 
ness,  "  there  may  be  less  of  dishonesty  in  my 
withholding  than  in  your  demanding." 

"  Dishonesty  !  Do  you  dare  ?  "  The  creditor's 
face  flushed,  and  his  lips  quivered  with  indig 
nation. 

"There  are  ten  creditors  in  all,"  said  Wilkins, 
with  regained  composure.  "Let  me  put  to  you 
a  question.  I  owe  John  Martin  six  hundred 
dollars.  Suppose  I  had  six  hundred  dollars, 
and  little  prospect  of  ever  getting  any  more, 
and  were  to  pay  the  whole  of  it  over  to  John 
Martin,  instead  of  dividing  it  equally  between 
you  and  all  the  creditors,  would  you  deem  the 
act  right  on  my  part?  Or,  would  you  think 
Martin  really  honest,  if  he  were  to  crowd  and 
chafe  me,  until,  in  very  desperation,  as  it  were 
I  gave  him  the  whole  of  what  mainly  belongei 


130  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

to  others?  Would  you  not  say  that  he  had 
possessed  himself  of  your  property?  I  know 
you  would.  And  let  me  say  to  you  plainly,  that 
I  do  not  think  your  present  effort  to  get  me  to 
pay  oft'  your  claim  entire,  regardless  of  others 
equally  as  much  entitled  to  be  paid  as  yourself, 
at  all  indicative  of  unselfishness,  or  a  spirit  of 
genuine  honesty.  If  I  have  any  money  to  pay, 
it  belongs  equally  to  all  my  creditors  —  uot  to 
any  one  of  them  exclusively." 

To  be  turned  upon  thus  by  a  man  who  was  in 
debt  to  him  —  to  be  charged  with  a  dishonest 
spirit  by  the  poor  creature  whose  relations  to 
society  he  regarded  as  essentially  dishonest  — 
this  was  too  much  for  the  self-complacency  of 
Mr.  Green.  He  rose  up  quickly,  saying,  in  a 
threatening  tone,  — 

"  You  will  repent  of  this  insult,  sir  !  I  have 
forborne  for  years,  believing  that  you  were  really 
honest ;  but  for  this  forbearance  I  now  meet 
with  outrage.  I  shall  forbear  no  longer.  You 
are  able  enough  to  pay  me,  and  I  will  find  a  way 
to  compel  yon  to  do  so." 

Left  alone  with  his  troubled  thoughts,  poor 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUK    DEBTORS.      13] 

Mr.  Wilkius  felt  not  only  humiliated  and  wretch 
ed,  but  alarmed  for  the  integrity  of  his  house 
hold.  There  was  no  way  in  which  his  creditor 
could  extort  the  sum  due  him,  except  by  seizing 
upon  his  household  furniture.  That  Green 
would  do  this,  he  had  but  too  good  reason  to 
fear,  for  he  had  done  it  in  other  cases.  His 
fears  proved  not  altogether  groundless.  On  the 
very  next  day,  a  sheriff's  writ  was  served  on  him 
at  the  suit  of  Harvey  Green. 

"  What  do  you  propose  doing  ? "  asked  Wil- 
kins,  on  meeting  with  his  creditor  u  few  days 
afterwards. 

"  Get  my  money  !  "  was  answered,  sternly. 

"  But  I  have  nothing." 

"  We  will  soon  see  about  that !  Good  morn- 
ing." 

Mr.  Green  imagined  that  the  indignation  felt 
towards  Wilkius  was  directed  against  his  dis 
honest  spirit ;  was,  in  fact,  a  righteous  indigna 
tion,  when  its  spring  was  in  cupidity  and  wounded 
pride. 

It  was  the  day  before  the  trial  of  his  cause 
against  Wilkins,  when  he  expected  to  get  judg- 


132  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

ment  by  default,  as  no  answer  had  been  made 
by  the  defendant  in  the  case.  And  it  was  his 
purpose,  as  it  had  been  from  the  beginning,  to 
order  an  execution  so  soon  as  the  matter  was 
through  the  court,  and  seize  upon  any  property 
that  could  be  found. 

Evening  came,  and  Mr.  Green  sat,  with  his 
children  around  him,  in  his  pleasant  home.  A 
sweet  little  boy  knelt  before  him,  his  pure  hands 
clasped  in  prayer,  while  from  his  lips  came, 
musically,  the  words  taught  by  the  Lord  to  his 
disciples,  "  Forgive  us  our  debts,  as  we  forgive 
our  debtors." 

There  seemed  a  deeper  meaning  in  the  words, 
murmured  by  innocent  childhood,  than  had  ever 
before  reached  his  perceptions.  His  thoughts 
were  stirred ;  new  emotions  awakened.  The 
prayer  was  said,  the  little  one  arose  from  his 
knees,  and  lifted  his  rosy  lips  for  the  good-night 
kiss. 

"Father,"  said  he,  turning  back,  aftei  going 
across  the  room,  "  I'm  not  going  to  let  Harry 
Williams  pay  me  for  that  sled.  It  got  b?4oke  ul1 
to  pieces  the  next  day  after  I  let  him  havo  it.' 


AS  WE  FORGIVE  OUR  DEBTORS.   133 

"He  bought  it  from  you,"  said  Mr.  Green. 

"I  know  he  did  ;  but  Harry's  mother  is  poor, 
and  he  only  gets  a  penny  now  and  then.  It  will 
take  him  a  long,  long  time  to  save  a  dollar;  and 
then  the  sled  is  broken,  and  no  good  to  him. 
I  have  a  great  many  more  nice  things  than  he 
lias,  and  why  should  I  want  his  pennies  when 
he  gets  so  few  ?  " 

"What  made  you  think  of  this?"  asked  the 
father,  who  was  touched  by  the  words  of  his 
child. 

"It  came  into  my  mind  just  now  when  I  was 
saying  my  prayer.  I  prayed,  'Forgive  us  our 
debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors.'  Now,  Harry 
Williams  is  my  debtor,  is  he  not  ?" 

"Yes,  my  son." 

"  Well,  if  I  don't  forgive  him  his  debt,  how 
can  I  expect  God  to  forgive  me  my  debt?  If  I 
pray  to  him  to  forgive  me  as  I  forgive  Hurry, 
and  1  don't  forgive  Harry  at  all,  don't  I  ask  God 
not  to  forgive  me,  father?" 

The  child  spoke  earnestly,  and  stood  with  his 
large,  deep,  calm  eyes  fixed  intently  on  his 
father's  face.  Almost  involuntarily  Mr.  Green 
repeated  the  words, — 


134  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"'If  ye  forgive  not  men  their  trespasses, 
said  our  Saviour,  '  neither  will  your  Father  for 
give  your  trespasses.' " 

"I'll  forgive  Harry  the  debt,  father.  I'm  sure 
he  isn't  able  to  pay  for  the  sled ;  and  I  have  a 
great  many  more  nice  things  than  he  has.  If  I 
don't  do  it,  how  can  I  ever  pray  that  prayer 
again?" 

"  O,  yes,  yes  !  Forgive  him  the  debt,  by  all 
means  ! "  replied  the  father,  kissing  his  boy. 

That  evening  was  spent  by  Mr.  Green  iu 
closer  self-communion  than  he  had  known  for 
many  years.  The  words  of  his  child  had  come 
to  him  like  rebuking  precepts  from  heaven,  and 
he  bowed  his  head,  humiliated  and  repentant, 
resolving  to  forgive  in  the  future  as  he  would  be 
forgiven. 

On  the  morning  that  followed,  as  Mr.  Wilkins, 
from  whose  mind  the  cloud  had  not  lifted  itself, 
—  who  was  yet  trembling  for  the  home  of  his 
children,  —  was  passing  from  his  door,  a  lad 
placed  a  letter  in  his  hand.  He  knew  the  face 
of  the  boy  from  its  likenesss  to  that  of  Mr, 
Green. 


AS    WE    FORGIVE    OUR    DEBTORS.      135 

"More  trouble,"  he  sighed  to  himself,  as  he 
thrust  the  note  into  his  pocket. 

An  hour  afterwards  he  opened  it,  and,  to  his 
bewilderment  and  surprise,  found  within  his 
account  fully  drawn  out,  and  receipted  with  the 
signature  of  Harvey  Green.  Below  the  receipt 
was  written,  "I  stand  rebuked.  I  must  forgive, 
if  I  hope  to  be  forgiven." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Wilkins  could  re 
strain  a  gush  of  tears,  so  great  was  his  instant 
revulsion  of  feeling.  Ah,  if  Harvey  Green  could 
have  seen  his  heart  at  that  moment,  his  debt 
would  have  been  paid  fourfold.  No  amount  of 
money  poured  into  his  coffers  could  have  pro 
duced  such  a  feeling  of  heavenly  delight. 


136  THE    PEACEMAKER. 


X. 

GIVING  TO  THE  POOR. 

"DIDN'T  Brown  give  anything?"  said  Mr, 
Ward. 

"  Not  a  dime,"  was  answered. 

"  What  excuse  did  he  make  ?  " 

"  O,  he  said  something  about  the  harm  that 
is  done  by  indiscriminate  almsgiving.  I  hardly 
kept  patient  enough  to  hear  him  to  the  end." 

"All  stuff!"  said  Mr.  Ward.  "A  mere  ex 
cuse  for  parsimony." 

"So  I  felt.  Well,  well!  Some  men's  hearts 
are  made  of  iron." 

"  You  told  him  how  destitute  poor  Mrs.  Folger 
was?" 

«  O,  yes  !  " 

"And  he  didn't  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket?" 

"  No." 

"  Very  well.  Let  Mr.  Brown  pass.  We  can 
do  without  him.  God's  poor  are  all  around  us, 
and  if  we  neglect  our  duty,  he  will  not  forget." 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  137 

"I  couldn't  help  looking  around  the  room," 
was  answered  to  this,  "and  noticing  its  com 
fortable  arrangements.  Cushioned  easy-chairs, 
lounges,  soft  carpets,  and  warm  curtains.  Mr. 
Brown,  in  wrapper  and  slippers,  sitting  by  the 
glowing  grate,  was  the  picture  of  sellish  enjoy 
ment.  Poor  Mrs.  Folger !  I  thought  of  her, 
shivering  with  her  half-clothed  children  by  a 
few  coals.  Well,  well !  Some  have  their  good 
things  here,  and  some  their  evil  things.  But 
there  will  be  a  reversion  of  this  order  in  the 
time  to  come.  Money  seems  to  harden  some 
people's  hearts.  The  more  they  get,  the  less 
human  they  become.  What  is  a  dollar  or  two 
to  Brown  ?  Nothing !  It  would  not  have  been 
missed  from  his  purse,  nor  abridged  a  single 
comfort.  But,  to  Mrs.  Folger  and  her  poor 
children,  the  sum  would  have  brought  food  and 
warmth.  The  difference  is  striking  and  signifi 
cant.  I  am  sorry  for  Mr.  Brown.  He  has  lost 
an  opportunity  of  laying  up  treasure  in  heaven." 

And  so  they  talked,  sitting  in  judgment  on 
Mr.  Brown.  Of  his  comfortable  surroundings, 
we  have  had  a  passing  glimpse.  Let  us  see  how 


138  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

it  really  is  with  Mrs.  Folger,  who  lives  not  far 
away,  in  a  narrow  court,  amidst  the  children  of 
poverty.  We  enter  a  small  room,  almost  unfur 
nished.  There  is  an  old  pine  table,  with  one 
leaf  broken  off;  three  chairs,  and  a  wooden 
bench,  and  a  small,  cracked  stove,  in  which 
carpenters'  refuse  is  burning.  Sundry  garments 
hang  against  the  walls,  or  lie  in  the  corners. 
Cracked  or  broken  dishes,  unwashed,  cover  the 
table  and  mantel-piece.  It  is  a  scene  of  disorder 
and  filth.  And  in  the  midst,  sitting  with  idle 
hands,  is  Mrs.  Folger.  Her  attitude  expresses 
a  nerveless  state  of  mind ;  her  face  is  troubled. 
Three  children  hover  about  the  stove.  One  of 
them  is  a  stout,  sensual-looking  boy,  over  four 
teen  years  of  age.  The  other  two  are  girls  — 
their  ages  eight  and  ten. 

"You'll  have  to  go  back,  John,"  says  the 
mother,  in  a  tone  of  pitiful  remonstrance.  "  I'm 
sorry,  but  there's  no  help  for  it." 

John's  face  darkens. 

"If  you  had  to  get  up  and  go  off  in  the  cold, 
as  I  do,  every  morning  —  " 

"I    know   it's   hard,    my   son.     I   pity   you," 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  139 

breaks  in  the  weak,  irresolute  mother.  "But 
what  are  we  to  do?  Starve?  You  must  go 
back,  John." 

"I  can  never  stand  it,  mother.  My  back 
aches  from  the  time  I  go  into  the  shop  until  I 
come  out  again.  And  Mr.  Grind  is  a  Turk. 
He  knocks  the  boys  about,  and  drives  them  to 
death.  They  say  he  killed  a  boy  last  winter. 
I'm  so  'fraid  of  him,  that  I  tremble  all  over 
whenever  he  comes  near  me.  Yesterday  he 
caught  me  by  the  hair  and  pulled  me  half  across 
the  room.  O,  dear !  I  can't  stand  it  mother, 
and  I  won't!" 

The  mother  began  wringing  her  hands  in  a 
distressed  way.  Just  then  came  a  knock  at  her 
door,  which,  not  moving,  she  answered  by  a 
loud  "  Come  in ! "  A  woman  entered.  Mrs. 
Folger  arose  instantly,  with  a  slightly  confused 
manner,  for  the  visitor's  attire  was  that  of  a 
person  quite  above  her  social  condition. 

"Is  your  name  Folger?" 

"Yes,  ma'am/'  The  tone  was  faint  and  pit- 
eons,  and  the  face  in  keeping  with  the  voice. 
"Won't  yon  sit  down?"  And  Mrs.  Folger 


140  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

brushed  a  chair,  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  th< 
room,    with   her  dirty   apron,  —  it   needed   the 
operation,  —  and  handed  it  to  the  lady,   whose 
quick  eyes  were  taking  in  everything  almost  at 
a  glance. 

"Are  you  sick?"  was  inquired,  in  a  calm, 
searching  voice. 

"No,  ma'am,  not  just  sick;  but  I  never  feel 
very  well." 

"Is  this  the  way  in  which  you  live  all  the 
while?"  The  visitor  glanced  around  the  room 
again. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Poor  people  can't  have  things 
like  the  rich." 

"They  can  be  clean  and  neat,  and  make  the 
most  of  what  they  have.  Water  costs  nothing, 
and  an  hour  a  day  expended  on  a  room  like  this 
would  keep  it  sweet  and  in  order.  Are  these 
your  children?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."    Still  plaintive,  almost  whining. 

"  How  old  is  the  boy  ?  " 

"Fourteen." 

"  Why  isn't  he  at  work  ?  " 

"He's  had  a  pl.ice,  ma'am,  but  he  left  it  yes- 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  141 

"Why?" 

"  They  worked  him  so  hard,  and  treated  him 
so  dreadfully,  that  he  couldn't  stand  it.  They 
treat  poor  boys  worse  than  dumb  beasts,  some 
times." 

The  lady  eyed  the  boy  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  said,  — 

"He  doesn't  look  as  if  he'd  been  very  badly 
used.  What's  your  name,  sir?" 

"John,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Where  have  you  been  at  work  ?  " 

"  In  a  hat  factory." 

"  How  much  did  they  pay  you  ?  " 

"  Two  dollars  and  a  half,  ma'am." 

«  Why  did  you  leave  ?  " 

The  boy  stammered  a  lame  excuse. 

"That  won't  do,"  said  the  lady.  "You  must 
go  back  to  your  place  again.  A  boy  that's 
afraid  of  work  will  never  make  a  man  worth 
anything.  Send  him  back  to  his  place,  Mrs. 
Folger,,  and  be  thankful  that  he  has  something 
to  do  this  hard  winter.  There  are  hundreds 
nroundi  yon,  men  and  boys,  who  haven't  a 
of  work.  And  now,  let  mo  ask  what 


142  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

you  are  doing  in  the  way  of  supporting  your 
self  and  children?" 

The  woman's  manner  began  to  grow  uneasy. 
She  didn't  feel  comfortable  in  the  presence  of 
this  unsympathizing  visitor. 

"I  haven't  any  work  just  now,"  she  answered. 

"How  comes  that?  What  kind  of  work  have 
you  been  doing?" 

"I  took  in  washing  and  ironing,  but  I'm  a 
weakly  woman,  and  it  was  so  dreadful  hard  on 
me  that  I  had  to  give  it  up." 

"  Can't  you  sew  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  but  bending  over  that  kind  of 
work  gives  me  a  pain  in  my  breast." 

"And  so  you  sit  down  in  idleness  and  dis 
order,  and  encourage  the  same  vices  in  your 
children;"  this  was  said  in  an  undertone,  so 
that  the  woman  alone  might  hear  the  rebuke. 
"This  won't  answer,  Mrs.  Folgcr.  Send  your 
boy  back  to  his  place,  and  let  him  have  the  ben 
efits  and  protection  of  useful  employment.  Go 
to  work  yourself.  Put  your  rooms  in  order, 
and  keep  them  so.  Try  and  live  like  a  decent 
woman.  This  is  shocking  !  What  do  vou  ex- 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR. 

pect  your  children  to  become,  if  raised  in  idle 
ness,  disorder,  and  dirt?  Teach  your  little 
girls  to  be  tidy  and  industrious ;  and  this,  by 
example.  Let  them  see  their  mother  always 
busy,  and  always  making  the  best  of  every 
thing.  Old  and  young  are  happiest  when  use 
fully  employed.  Work  is  no  hardship,  but  u 
blessing.  Send  John  back  to  his  place,  that  he 
may  grow  up  a  useful,  industrious  boy,  and  help 
you  at  the  same  time.  He's  stout  and  strong, 
and  can  bear  a  little  rough  usage,  if  it  must 
come.  But  don't  encourage  him  to  complain. 
Let  him  understand  that  he's  got  to  hold  on  to 
his  place.  It  will  be  best  for  him  —  it  will  make 
a  man  of  him.  So  arouse  yourself,  Mrs.  Folger  ! 
You  and  John  are  able  to  work,  and  take  good 
care  of  yourselves.  And  these  little  girls  can 
help  in  a  great  many  ways,  if  you  show  them 
how.  All  you  need  is  a  willing  spirit." 

And  the  visitor  arose  and  departed,  without 
offering  the  smallest  aid  beyond  the  reproof  and 
injunctions  we  have  recorded. 

"You'll  have  to  go  back,  John;  there's  no 
help  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Folger.  Ilor  voice  had 


144  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

in  it  a  firmer  quality.  She  hud  arisen  under  the 
force  of  a  new  spirit  which  had  been  awakened, 
and  was  moving  about  the  room,  putting  things 
in  order,  and  preparing  to  wash  up  the  dishes, 
which  had  not  been  touched  since  their  last  meal. 
"  We've  nothing  but  your  wages  to  depend  on  ; 
and,  anyhow,  idleness  is  bad  for  boys.  I  don't 
want  you  on  the  street  again.  I've  had  trouble 
enough  with  you  already.  So  go  right  away 
back  to  the  shop  before  some  one  else  gets  your 
place  —  go  right  away  ! " 

John  demurred,  feebly,  but  made  preparations 
for  obeying.  He  was  putting  on  his  overcoat, 
when  another  rap  \vas  heard  on  the  door.  Mr. 
Ward  came  in.  The  destitute  condition  of  this 
family  had  been  made  known  to  him  by  some 
one  who  saw  only  the  surface  of  things,  and  the 
relation  had  drawn  largely  on  his  sympathies. 
So,  acting  under  a  blindly  benevolent  impulse, 
he  had  collected  some  twenty  dollars,  and  now 
came  on  his  mission  of  blessing  to  the  poor. 
Mr.  Brown,  from  wbftm,  through  the  medium 
of  a  friend,  he  had  anticipated  a  liberal  dona 
tion  to  his  fund,  gave  nothing,  as  we  have  seen, 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOH.  145 

and  was  harshly  judged  for  withholding.  Ex 
pressions  of  surprise  and  pity  fell  from  the  lips 
of  Mr.  Ware?,  as  he  glanced  around  the  room. 

"This  is  a  hard  way  to  live!"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  commiseration,  speaking  half  to  himself 
and  half  to  the  woman. 

"Indeed  it  is  hard!"  Mrs.  Folger's  dirty 
apron  went  to  her  eyes.  Her  voice  Was  choked 
by  feeling;  tears  came  readily  to  view.  John 
instinctively  put  off  his  overcoat,  and  laid  aside 
his  cap. 

"Have  you  no  coal?"  asked  Mr.  Ward,  as  he 
glanced  to  the  stove  and  saw  the  carpenters' 
shavings  strewn  around. 

"No,  sir,"  whined  the  woman. 

"  Bless  me  !  that  is  hard  ! "  And  Mr.  Ward 
drew  out  his  pocket-book.  "  Is  this  your  boy?" 
looking  towards  John. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  here  my  lad.  Take  this  five-dollar 
bill,  go  to  one  of  the  coal-yards  on  Broad  Street, 
and  order  a  ton  of  coal  for  your  mother." 

John's  overcoat  went  on  quickly,  and,  taking 
the  banknote,  he  started  on  his  errand. 
10 


146  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"Hi!  Where  you  going?"  A  boy,  old  • 
than  John,  hailed  him  as  he  turned  the  fi.  it 
corner. 

"Down  to  the  coal-yard.     Come  —  go  'long." 

The  boy  joined  him.     "  Going  to  buy  coal?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"A  ton." 

"  Whew  !     Got  the  money  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed!  See!"  And  John  displayed 
the  five-dollar  bill.  They  walked  a  little  way 
in  silence,  the  companion  plotting  evil.  I^e 
was  farther  away  from  the  right  path  thki 
John. 

"A  whole  ton,  did  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  a  whole  ton." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  did  once." 

"What?" 

"They  sent  me  for  a  ton  of  coal,  and  I  bought 
only  three  quarters.  So  I  had  a  dollar  and  a 
levy  all  to  myself." 

"And  didn't  they  find  it  out?"  John's  eyos 
grew  larger,  and  his  voice  was  excited. 

"No.  The  three  quarters  went  for  a  ton,  and 
nobody  was  any  the  wiser." 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  147 

The  tempter  prevailed,  and  John  shared  with 
him  the  price  of  a  quarter  of  a  ton  of  coal ! 

Mr.  Ward  made  a  few  general  inquiries  of 
Mrs.  Folger,  after  sending  John  away ;  and 
taking  all  that  she  said  for  granted,  handed  her 
over  fifteen  dollars,  the  balance  of  his  collections 
and  contribution ;  and,  telling  her  to  make  her 
self  and  children  comfortable,  retired,  feeling 
that  he  had  done  a  most  benevolent  action.  He 
passed  the  home  of  Mr.  Brown  on  his  way  back 
from  this  errand  of  mercy,  and,  glancing  up  at 
the  windows,  said,  in  his  thought, — 

"  It  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye 
of  a  needle,  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the 
kingdom  of  heaven." 

As  he  went  by,  the  visitor  who  had  called  a 
little  while  before  him  at  the  widow's  miserable 
home,  sat  talking  with  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Any  help  there,"  she  is  saying,  "  will  do 
harm  rather  than  good.  Mrs.  Folger  and  her 
oldest  boy  are  able  to  earn  all  that  is  really 
needful.  But  she  is  lazy  and  neglectful  of  her 
home  and  children,  and  he,  like  most  boys, 
would  rather  play  than  work.  If  you  help 


148  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

them,  she  will  fold  her  hands,  and  he  will  go 
upon  the  street.  The  spur  of  hunger  and  cold 
are  needed  there.  Take  it  off,  and  the  family 
will  grow  up  idle  and  vicious." 

Mr.  Brown  sighed.  "Hunger  and  cold  are 
hard  drivers,  Margaret." 

"But  not  so  hard  as  vice  and  crime.  Work  is 
no  hardship,  but  a  blessing.  The  bread  that 
is  earned  is  sweeter  to  the  taste.  Mrs.  Folger 
will  be  happier  at  toil  that  goes  even  beyond  her 
strength,  than  she  now  is,  sitting  in  idleness. 
Don't  give  her  a  dollar." 

"  How  is  old  Mrs.  Lyon  ?  "  was  inquired. 

"Feeble,  but  always  employed.  Out  of  the 
dollar  a  week  that  you  supply  for  worsted  and 
crochet  cotton,  she  produces  three  or  four  dol 
lars'  worth  of  work,  which,  so  far,  she  has  been 
able  to  sell.  She  lives  right  comfortably,  and  is 
cheerful  and  hopeful." 

"  And  Mrs.  Talbot  —  how  is  she  getting 
along?" 

"  As  well  as  could  be  expected,  under  the  cir 
cumstances." 

"  Five  little  children  are  a  heavy  burden  on  a 
poor  woman,"  said  Mr.  Brown. 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  149 

"  Heavier  on  some  than  on  others.  Mrs. 
Talbot  lacks  energy  and  forecast,  and  is  easily 
discouraged.  But  she  loves  her  children,  and 
would  die  for  them,  if  that  were  demanded. 
You  pay  her  rent,  and  supply  her  with  fuel.  To 
go  beyond  that  would,  I  think,  injure  rather  than 
benefit  her.  She  has  to  keep  busy  in  order  to 
get  plain  food,  and  plain  food  is  better  for  them 
than  luxuries." 

Mr.  Brown  sighed,  as  he  answered,  "We 
think  plain  food  all  right  for  the  children  of 
poor  people,  but  would  we  like  to  set  our  own 
children  down  to  such  fare  ?  " 

"  Plain  food  would  be  better  for  them.  It  is 
weakness,  not  genuine  kindness,  that  causes  us 
to  set  unhealthy  luxuries  before  our  children. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  wrong  thinking  on  this 
subject  of  the  poor,"  continued  the  lady.  "  We 
forget  that  true  enjoyment  is  not  from  the  ex 
ternal  condition,  but  from  the  mind's  state  and 
quality ;  and  that  useful  occupation  alone  puts 
a  man  in  that  orderly  condition  with  society 
through  which  God  can  lead  him  into  the  ways 
of  true  happiness.  Every  one  must  do  some 


150  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

service.  If  it  be  of  a  low  and  material  nature, 
ministering  only  to  the  body's  grosser  needs,  it 
will  be  poorly  paid.  If  more  skilled,  the  return 
will  be  larger.  But,  in  all  cases,  it  is  best  that 
the  individual  should  earn  his  bread,  whether 
the  loaf  be  brown  or  white.  It  will  be  sweeter 
for  the  toil.  Faithful  service  —  the  always  doing 
up  to  the  ability  —  is  sure  to  meet  with  increas 
ing  compensation.  It  is  the  grudged,  reluctant, 
inadequate  service  that  is  such  a  hinderance  to 
the  poor;  and  our  duty  to  them  is  not  in  alms 
giving,  but  in  teaching  them  how  they  can  be 
more  faithful  and  energetic  in  doing  the  work 
that  is  committed  to  their  hands.  In  most  cases 
our  gratuities  do  more  harm  than  good." 

A  week  passed.  Mr.  Ward  was  at  his  door, 
key  in  hand,  just  about  entering,  when  a  little 
girl,  thinly  dressed,  in  soiled  finery,  ran  up,  and 
said,  — 

"  O,  sir  !  Mother  sent  me  round  to  ask  if  you 
wouldn't  come  there."  The  child  had  a  fright 
ened  look. 

"  Who's  your  mother? " 

u  Mrs.  Folger,"  was  answered. 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  151 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"O,  sir,  the  policeman's  carried  our  John  off, 
and  says  he'll  be  sent  to  the  House  of  Refuge  ! " 

"  What's  John  been  doing?  " 

"I  don't  know.  Mother  wants  you  to  come 
there." 

Mr.  Ward  had  felt  very  comfortable  in  mind 
about  Mrs.  Folger.  His  thoughts  had  turned  to 
her  very  often,  and  with  a  feeling  of  self-com 
placency.  The  ton  of  coal,  and  fifteen  dollars, 
were  tc  transform  the  miserable  apartment  in 
which  he  saw  her  with  her  children  into  a  kind 
of  Paradise.  Many  times  had  he  contrasted  his 
own  benevolent  action  in  this  case  with  the 
"heartless  indifference "  of  Mr.  Brown,  his  rich 
neighbor,  and  self-approval  and  self-complacency 
nestled  in  his  heart.  Now  he  was  disturbed 
from  his  tranquillity.  Here  was  a  nc\v  aspect 
of  affairs,  not  by  any  means  agreeable.  He 
hesitated  a  few  moments,  and  then  went  with 
the  child.  As  he  walked  along  he  observed  her 
more  carefully.  She  had  on  a  soiled,  but  gay 
colored  frock  ;  and  around  her  waist  was  a  broad 
ribbon,  wilh  long  ends  at  the  bide. 


152  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  dress?"  inquired 
Mr.  Ward. 

"  Mother  bought  it." 

"When?" 

"Next  day  after  you  were  at  our  house." 

"She  did?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Me  and  Susie  were  invited  to  a 
party  at  Mrs.  Cooper's,  next  door;  and  mother 
said  we  should  look  as  well  as  anybody's  chil 
dren —  and  so  we  did.  Mother  sat  up  all  night 
to  get  'em  done." 

"  So  you  and  Susie  both  had  new  party  dresses 
and  sashes?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  new  shoes,"  —  glancing  down 
at  a  pair  of  thin  slippers. 

Mr.  Ward  began  to  feel  some  risings  of  the 
natural  man.  He  found  Mrs.  Folger  in  great 
distress,  crying  and  wringing  her  hands.  After 
a  great  deal  of  questioning,  he  got  down  to  the 
simple  truth  in  the  case,  not  omitting  the  fact 
that  John  had  supplied  himself  with  spending 
money  in  the  way  already  mentioned.  One  dis 
honest  act  lends  to  another.  Idleness  and  the 


GIVING    TO    THE    POOR.  153 

companionship  of  vicious  boys  drew  him  into 
further  temptation,  and  on  that  afternoon  he 
had  been  arrested,  with  another  lad  older  than 
himself,  for  the  crime  of  robbing  a  till.  On 
clearly  understanding  the  case,  and  ascertaining, 
besides,  that  Mrs.  Folger  had  already  spent 
nearly  the  whole  sum  placed  in  her  hands,  com 
passion  changed  to  indignation. 

"  Let  him  go  to  the  House  of  Refuge !  It's 
the  best  place  for  him.  He  may  come  out  an 
honest,  industrious  boy ;  but,  under  your  man 
agement,  only  a  miracle  can  save  him  from  the 
State  Prison  or  gallows." 

And  so  saying,  our  impulsive  philanthropist 
turned  from  the  weak,  miserable  mother,  and  left 
her  in  her  sorrow  and  despair.  It  was  his  hand 
that  had  drawn  her  from  the  safe  way  of  self- 
dependence  ;  his  blind  benevolence  that  had 
removed  a  pressing  necessity  for  the  boy's  re 
turning  to  his  work,  and,  in  the  idle  days  that 
followed,  crime  wrought  an  irreparable  disaster. 
There  had  been  no  wise  discrimination  in  giving; 
and  there  was,  now,  no  pity  in  his  heart,  as  he 


154  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

turned  away,  saying  to  himself,  "  I'll  never  do  a 
kind  act  again  as  long  as  I  live  !  " 

So  act,  usually,  your  selfish  philanthropists, 
who  give  from  weak  impulse,  instead  of  a  true 
benevolence. 


HIS    OWN    ENEMY.  155 


XI. 

HIS    OWN    ENEMY. 

"You  have  enemies,  and  they  are  seeking 
your  destruction." 

"No  man  knows  that  better  than  I  do.  They 
have  dogged  my  steps  for  years.  There's  Ma 
son,  —  he  never  lets  an  opportunity  for  thrusting 
at  me  pass.  He's  done  me  a  world  of  harm." 

"I  think  you  are  in  error  in  regard  to  Mr. 
Mason.  He  is  your  friend,  not  your  eneniy." 

The  minister  said  this  with  a  deliberateness  of 
utterance  that  marked  his  view  of  the  case. 

"  My  friend  !  "  There  was  bitter  contempt  in 
the  speaker's  voice.  "Heaven  save  me  from  a 
troop  of  such  friends !  They  would  soon  con 
sign  me  to  the  depths  of  perdition." 

"Wrong,  all  wrong,  Mr.  Slade.  The  spirit 
that  prompted  your  words  just  now  is  far  more 
your  enemy  than  Mr.  Mason,  or  any  other  living 
mortal." 


156  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"You  speak  in  an  unknown  tongue,"  was 
answered. 

"If  this  be  so,  let  me  suggest  that  your  hap 
piness  and  safety  in  life  depend  greatly  on  your 
becoming  acquainted  with  its  significance.  You 
have  enemies ;  so  have  all  men.  But,  they  are 
within.  A  man's  worst  foes  are  in  his  own 
household." 

"  They  are  not  in  my  family  ! "  The  rejection 
of  this  idea  was  emphatic. 

"  But  they  are  in  your  heart,  Mr.  Slade ;  that 
is  the  household  to  which  I  refer.  And  the 
enemies  that  gain  admittance  there,  are  your 
worst  enemies  —  the  only  ones,  in  fact,  who  can 
do  you  serious  or  permanent  injury.  Reflect 
calmly  for  a  little  while.  Look  away  from 
individuals  and  circumstances,  and  draw  your 
thoughts  inward.  Personify,  if  you  can,  the 
states  of  mind  by  which  you  are  most  strongly 
influenced,  and  see  if  they  do  not  hurt  you  more 
than  anything  that  has  ever  come  from  the  out 
side  ?  Are  you  not  a  self-tormentor,  and  a  real 
enemy  in  heart,  towards  those  whom  you  im 
agine  in  league  against  you?  A  real  enemy, 


HIS    OWN     ENEMY.  157 

because  you  retaliate  and  try  to  do  harm?  I 
have  met,  a  few  times  in  my  life,  with  men  who 
were  haunted,  as  you  are,  with  the  singular 
notion  that  they  had  hosts  of  enemies  in  the 
world,  when  the  trouble  was  within  and  not 
without.  People  who  desired  to  be  their  friends, 
were  misapprehended  and  thrown  off,  or  assailed 
vindictively,  under  an  entirely  false  judgment; 
and  you  must  not  be  hurt  with  me  for  saying 
that  I  fear  you  are  in  a  similar  hallucination." 

"O,  no!  O,  no,  Mr.  Howard!  I  am  under 
no  such  hallucination."  The  imputation  was 
rejected  with  some  warmth,  but  not  in  a  way  to 
show  that  he  was  offended  at  the  clergyman's 
plainness  of  speech. 

"Pardon  me  for  still  thinking  that  you  are," 
was  answered.  "  Take  the  case  of  Mr.  Mason, 
for  instance.  You  call  him  an  enemy." 

"I  do  —  and  know  him  to  be  one.  He's  in 
jured  me  in  numberless  ways." 

"Mention  one  instance." 

Mr.  Slade  did  not  answer  promptly.  For  al 
most  a  minute  he  stood  casting  about  in  his 
mind,  and  thei;  said,  in  a  dogged  kind  of  man 
ner,  — 


158  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"He's  injured  me  in  my  business  and  my 
reputation,  by  exciting  prejudices  against  me. 
I  know  him  better  than  you  do." 

"A  single  fact  is  worth  a  dozen  inferences, 
Mr.  Slade.  Come  down  to  a  single  fact.  Put 
your  hand  upon  the  wrong  that  he  has  done. 
Let  us  convict  him  by  his  acts :  these  are  sub 
stantial  witnesses." 

"  He  set  Carter  against  me  —  Carter,  who  was 
one  of  my  best  customers.  I'll  never  forgive 
him  for  that,  if  I  live  a  thousand  years." 

It  so  happened  that  the  very  individual  spoken 
of  came  that  instant  in  sight.  Howard  stepped 
to  the  door,  and,  as  he  approached,  held  out  his 
hand,  and  said, — 

"  Come  in  a  moment.     I  want  to  say  a  word  ?  " 

From  Carter's  manner,  it  was  plain  that  he 
would  have  preferred  passing  on,  but  the  min 
ister  drew  firmly  on  his  hand,  and  he  entered  the 
store  of  Mr.  Slade.  The  two  men  looked  rather 
shyly  at  each  other,  and  nodded  a  cold  recogni 
tion.  There  was  no  offer  of  the  hand  from  either 
side. 

"You  know  friend  Mason?"  said  the  minister. 


HIS    OWN    ENEMY.  159 

"As  well  as  the  next  man,"  replied  Carter,  in 
an  oft-hand  .way. 

"  See  him  frequently  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  almost  every  day." 

"  He  talks  rather  hard  against  our  neighboi 
Slade." 

"Mason?"  There  was  a  tone  of  surprise  in 
Mr.  Carter's  voice. 

"Yes,  Mason." 

"Never  in  my  hearing,"  was  Carter's  unhesi 
tating  reply. 

"  Did  you  never  hear  him  speak  of  me  ? " 
Slade's  manner  was  excited,  and  his  tone  sharp. 

"Yes." 

"  Of  course  you  have ;  and  it  wasn't  anything 
good  that  he  had  to  say." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  answered  Mr.  Carter,  "  I've 
heard  him  speak  kindly,  and  say,  in  defending 
you  from  just  censure,  that  you  were  more  an 
enemy  to  yourself  than  any  one  else." 

"Didn't  he  prejudice  your  mind  against  me?" 
demanded  Slade,  still  under  much  excitement. 

"No." 

"Who  did  then?" 


THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"Yourself,  and  no  one  else.  When  you  at 
tempted  a  wanton  injury,  I  was  both  hurt  and 
offended." 

"I  never  attempted  to  injure  you." 

"  Stop,  sir.  Facts  are  stubborn  things.  I  am 
a  school  director." 

The  minister  noticed  a  change  in  the  coun 
tenance  of  Slade.  Carter  went  on  :  — 

"  And  was  elected  over  you  and  two  others  in 
our  ward,  who  were  nominated  for  the  same 
office.  At  once  I  saw  a  change  in  your  manner. 
You  could  not  tolerate  the  man  chosen  by  your 
fellow-citizens  as  better  qualified  than  you  were 
to  fill  a  post  of  honor  and  responsibility,  and. 
from  that  hour  considered  him  as  your  enemy. 
You  sneered  at  the  choice,  and  depreciated  me 
right  and  left;  and  not  content  with  this,  as- 
Bailed  my  official  conduct,  which  was  honest,  if 
I  know  myself,  in  the  newspapers." 

"Who  says  that  I  did?"  Slade's  face  was 
crimson  with  tell-tale  blood. 

"1  called  on  the  editor,  through  whose  sheet 
the  assault  on  me  was  made  public,  and  learned 
from  him  that  you  were  the  author  of  that  as- 


HIS    OWN    ENEMY.  161 

sault.  I  explained  to  him  that  you  had  been  a 
candidate  for  the  same  office,  and  gave  him  such 
irrefutable  evidence  as  to  the  wrong  done  me, 
that  he  made  my  defence  himself.  What  then  ? 
You  wrote  another  communication,  more  bitter 
and  exaggerated  than  the  first,  which  was  sent 
to  me,  and  which  I  burned.  No  real  harm  came 
to  me;  but  you  damaged  yourself  seriously. 
You  were  more  your  own  enemy  than  mine.  A 
man  who  is  right  with  his  conscience,  Mr.  Slade, 
need  be  in  no  trouble  about  enemies,  for  he  is 
triple  armed  against  them.  Now  you  know  why 
you  lost  my  custom,  and  why  I  have  held  my 
self  at  a  distance.  As  for  Mason,  he  is  about 
the  best  friend  you  have,  and  is  always  suggest 
ing  excuses  for  your  ill-natured  conduct.  Your 
hand  seems  to  be  against  every  man ;  and  I  only 
wonder  that  every  man's  hand  isn't  against  you  — 
and  such  will  be  the  case  before  long,  if  you 
don't  mend  your  ways.  Get  right  inside,  and  all 
will  go  well  enough  on  the  outside.  Look  on 
other  men  kindly,  and  you  will  then  begin  to 
understand  how  others  can  bear  you  as  kindly 
regard.  Be  forbearing  and  apologetic  in  respet 
H 


162  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

to  others,  and  you  will  comprehend  the  possi 
bility  of  a  like  spirit  in  return.  Take  off  your 
distorting  spectacles,  aud  look  upon  your  fellows 
with  a  clear  and  manly  vision.  You  will  be 
happier,  and  more  prosperous,  my  word  for  it. 
Good  morning.  I  have  spoken  plainly,  and  may 
it  do  you  good  ! " 

Carter  bowed  to  Slade  and  the  clergyman, 
and  retired.  The  latter  gazed  at  each  other  in 
silence  for  a  few  moments.  The  anger  had  gone 
out  of  Slade's  face ;  and  he  looked  cowed,  aud 
discontented. 

"  Your  own  worst  enemy,  I  see."  Mr.  How 
ard  spoke  soothingly,  yet  in  a  tone  of  admoni 
tion.  "The  foes  you  have  most  to  dread  are, 
as  I  before  remarked,  of  your  own  household. 
Overcome  and  cast  them  out,  and  all  will  be 
well.  Let  them  remain,  and  they  will  destroy 
inward  peace  and  outward  prosperity.  But 
why  have  you  cherished  the  thought  that  Mason, 
in  particular,  is  an  enemy,  ever  on  the  alert  to 
do  you  harm?  Have  you  done  or  said  anything 
to  excite  his  enmity?  Men  are  not  usually  our 
enemies  from  an  instinct  of  antagonism.  Most 
of  them  desire  amitv  nr.rl  cr  »<  d  u  ill." 


HIS    OWN    ENEMY.  163 

Slade  was  silent. 

"  I  fear,  as  was  intimated  in  the  beginning  of 
our  conversation,  that  your  own  heart  is  not 
right  towards  your  fellow-men,  my  brother." 
Mr.  Howard  was  kind  but  earnest,  so  as  not  to 
give  offence,  yet  penetrate,  if  possible,  to  the 
region  of  conviction. 

"  I  have  talked  out  pretty  freely  against  Ma 
son,  and  it  is  but  natural  to  infer  that  some  kind 
friend  has  repeated  my  words." 

"  Why  did  you  talk  against  him  ?  " 

"Because  I  disliked  him,  and  believed  him 
doing  all  in  his  power  to  injure  me." 

"Yet  you  have  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Carter, 
that  he  speaks  well  and  not  ill  of  you." 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  it,"  said  Sladc,  an 
intimation  of  doubt  in  his  voice. 

"My  friend," — the  clergyman  spoke  with 
great  seriousness,  —  "  accept  the  lesson  you  have 
just  received,  and  profit  by  it.  You  have  en 
emies,  bitter  and  deadly  ones,  who,  sleeping 
not  night  nor  day,  arc  bent  on  accomplishing 
your  ruin." 

A  shadow  of  concern  fell  over  the  countenance 


164  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

of  Slade.  His  thought  went  back  instinctively 
to  the  idea  of  outward  enemies,  —  flesh  and  blood 
enemies, — against  whom  he  had  always  stood 
armed  for  battle.  But  his  friendly  monitor 
swept  that  illusion  aside. 

"These  enemies,"  was  continued,  "are  evil 
spirits,  flowing  into  and  exciting  evil  affections. 
They  have  already  destroyed  your  peace,  and 
will,  unless  you  cast  them  out,  destroy  your 
soul.  Constantly  they  direct  your  thoughts  to 
other  and  imagined  enemies,  while  they  work  on 
you  their  will,  and  rob  you  of  that  precious  love 
of  the  brethren,  without  which  there  can  be  no 
love  of  God,  or  salvation  in  heaven.  I  speak 
of  God,  of  salvation,  and  of  heaven,  because  my 
high  calling  as  a  minister  gives  me  the  care  of 
immortal  souls,  and  my  duty  is  to  help  men 
light  against  subtle,  malignant,  deceiving  spirits, 
who  are  ever  seeking  their  destruction.  Culti 
vate  feelings  of  good-will  towards  your  neigh 
bors  ;  desire  prosperity  for  them  as  well  as  for 
3rourseif ;  acquiesce  in  all  public  sentiments  that 
discriminate  against  you  in  favor  of  another, 
believing  that  nothing  invidious  to  yourself  lies 


HIS    OWN    ENEMY.  165 

in  the  discrimination,  but  only  the  recognition 
of  more  suitable  qualities  in  another.  We  are 
not  alike  fitted  for  particular  places  in  life,  and 
our  selfish  desire  to  gain  a  position  may  lead  us 
to  an  over-estimate  of  our  fitness  in  comparison 
with  others.  The  decision  made  against  us  will 
not  be,  in  these  cases,  an  expression  of  enmity 
or  ill-will,  but  a  simple  election  on  the  ground 
of  superior  fitness.  I  am  very  sure  that  if  I  had 
been  a  voter  in  your  ward  for  school  director, 
I  would  have  given  my  ballot  for  Carter ;  but,  in 
doing  so,  I  would  have  expressed  no  dislike  for, 
or  opposition  to  you  as  an  individual.  It  would 
simply  have  been  a  choice  founded  on  my  esti 
mate  of  respective  fitness ;  and  for  you  to  have 
regarded  me  as  governed  by  personal  dislike,  or 
any  feeling  of  hostility,  would  have  been  doing 
me  a  great  wrong." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  over-sensitive,"  remarked 
Sladc.  "But  if  you  knew  how  much  I  have 
been  persecuted  —  " 

"  Don't  let  your  thought  go  in  that  direction 
at  all,  my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Howard,  interrupting 
him.  "Don't  think  of  persecution,  or  enmity, 


166  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

or  ill-will.  Be  right  with  yourself,  and  just  to 
all  men,  and  outside  enemies  will  soon  vanish 
like  the  morning  cloud  and  the  early  dew. 
Cultivate  feelings  of  kindness  and  good-will  for 
others  ;  seek  to  help  rather  than  to  hinder  them  ; 
to  excuse  instead  of  magnifying  their  faults ;  and 
you  will  soon  find  that  you  have  troops  of  friends 
where  you  now  see  only  persecuting  enemies. 
Above  all,  look  inward  for  your  real  foes ;  for 
the  true  disturbers  of  your  peace,  and  sworn 
destroyers  of  your  life.  Unless  you  put  all  the 
powers  of  your  soul  in  battle  array,  and  fight 
against  them,  as  the  children  of  Israel  were  com 
manded  to  fight  against  the  Canaanites,  —  even  to 
their  utter  extermination  and  banishment  from 
the  land, — they  will  make  life  here  bitter  and 
burdensome,  and  drag  you  down  to  everlasting 
perdition  in  the  world  to  come.  These  are  the 
only  enemies  to  be  feared,  and  I  pray  you,  my 
friend,  to  cast  them  out !  " 


ONLY     WORDS.  167 


XII. 

ONLY    WORDS. 

Two  women,  a  mother  and  her  daughter,  sat 
together  in  a  small  room,  meagrely  furnished. 
They  had  on  mourning  garments  ;  but  the  gloom 
of  their  habiliments  was  not  deeper  than  the 
gloom  of  their  faces. 

"What  are  we  to  do,  Alice?"  said  the  mother, 
breaking  in  upon  a  long  silence. 

"If  we  were  only  back  again  in  dear  West- 
brook  ! "  fell  longingly  from  the  daughter's  lips. 

"Yes,  if —  But  Westbrook  lies  more  than  a 
thousand  miles  distant.  It  was  a  sad  day  for  us, 
my  child,  when  we  left  there.  We  have  had 
nothing  since  but  trouble  and  sorrow." 

Tears  flowed  silently  over  the  mother's  face. 

"If  I  could  only  get  something  to  do,"  said 
Alice,  "how  willingly  would  I  work!  But  no 
one  wants  the  service  here  that  I  can  give." 

"We  shall  starve,  at  this  rate  !  "  spoke  out  the 


168  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

mother,  in  a  wild  kind  of  way,  as  if  fear  had 
grown  suddenly  desperate. 

Alice  did  not  reply,  but  sat  very  still,  in  an 
abstracted  way,  like  one  whose  thoughts  have 
grown  weary  in  some  fruitless  effort. 

"I  dreamed  last  night,"  she  said,  looking  up 
after  a  while,  "that  we  were  back  in  Wcstbrook, 
and  in  our  old  home.  That  dear  old  home ! 
How  plainly  I  saw  everything !  I  sat  at  the 
window,  looking  out  upon  the  little  garden  in 
front,  from  which  the  air  came  in  filled  with  the 
odor  of  flowers ;  and,  as  I  sat  there,  Mr.  Fleet- 
wood  came  by,  just  as  it  used  to  be ;  and  he 
stopped,  and  said, '  Good  morning,  Alice,'  in  that 
kind  way  with  which  he  always  spoke  to  me.  I 
cried,  when  I  awoke,  to  find  it  was  only  a 
dream." 

"Ah,  if  there  was  a  Mr.  Fleet  wood  here!' 
sighed  the  mother. 

"  Suppose  you  write  to  him,"  suggested  Alice. 
"The  thought  comes  this  moment  into  my  mind. 
I  am  sure  he  would  help  us.  You  know  what 
an  excellent  man  he  is." 

"I    will   do   it    this   very    day,"   replied    the 


ONLY     WOKDS.  109 

mother,  with  hope  and  confidence  in  her  voice. 
"  Isn't  it  strange  that  he  was  not  thought  of 
before?  Some  good  spirit  gave  you  that  dream, 
Alice." 

And  the  letter  was  written.  It  ran  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"EDWARD  FLEETWOOD,  ESQ. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  I  write  to  you  under  circum 
stances  of  great  extremity.  Since  we  left  West- 
brook  for  this  distant  region  we  have  known 
only  trouble.  Sickness  and  losses  met  us  on 
the  very  threshold  of  our  new  home ;  and  death 
came  at  last  to  complete  the  work  of  sorrow  and 
disaster.  Six  months  ago  my  husband  died, 
leaving  me  with  three  children,  and  in  circum 
stances  of  great  extremity.  How  we  have 
managed  to  live  since  that  time  I  can  hardly 
tell.  We  have  suffered  many  privations ;  but 
worse  things  are  approaching.  We  have  no 
friends  here.  None  to  help,  advise,  or  care  for 
us.  Alice  —  you  remember  my  daughter  Alice 
—  has  tried  to  get  something  to  do.  She  is 
willing  to  work  at  anything  to  which  her 


170  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

strength  is  equal.  But,  so  far,  she  has  been 
unsuccessful.  What  are  we  to  do?  It  looks 
as  if  actual  starvation  were  coming.  I  write  to 
you  —  remembering  your  kindly  nature,  your 
warm  and  human  heart.  O,  sir,  can  you  not 
help  us?  It  is  the  voice  of  the  widow  and 
fatherless  that  cries  unto  you.  Alice  dreamed 
of  you  last  night,  and  we  have  taken  it  as  a 
suggestion  and  an  omen.  Forgive  me  for  this 
freedom  ;  but,  when  imminent  danger  threatens, 
we  reach  out  our  hands  for  succor  in  any  direc 
tion  towards  which  hope  points  us.  I  shall  wait 
in  trembling  eagerness  your  reply. 
"Yours,  in  sorrow  and  hope, 

"ALICE  MAYNARD." 

Let  us  follow  this  letter  to  Westbrook,  and 
note  the  manner  in  which  it  is  received.  We 
find  it  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Fleetwood,  who  has 
read  it  through,  and  is  sitting  with  a  troubled 
look  on  his  kind  face. 

"There  is  no  help  in  me,"  he  says  at  length, 
folding  up  the  letter  and  laying  it  aside.  "Poor 
Mrs.  Maynard !  Is  the  day  indeed  so  dark  ? 


ONLY    WORDS.  171 

God  knows  how  willingly  I  would  help  you  if  it 
were  in  my  power.  But  misfortune  has  not 
come  to  you  alone.  It  has  passed  my  threshold 
also,  and  the  threshold  of  thousands  besides. 
Westbrook  has  seen  some  sad  changes  since 
you  went  away. 

"  Dreamed  of  me  ?  "  he  goes  on,  after  a  pause  ; 
"  and  you  have  taken  the  dream  as  a  suggestion 
and  an  omen?  Alas,  my  friend  I  It  is  not  a 
good  omen.  Some  spirit  has  mocked  you  with 
a  delusive  dream.  There  is  no  help  in  me. 
None  —  none  !  For  I  am  staggering  under  my 
own  burdens :  I  am  in  fear  all  the  day  long 
lest  the  evil  that  threatens  my  home  should  fall 
upon  it.  May  God  help  and  comfort  you  !  I 
cannot." 

Mr.  Fleetwood  took  the  letter  from  the  table 
on  which  he  had  placed  it,  and  laid  it  in  a 
drawer.  "Poor  Alice  Maynard ! "  he  sighed, 
as  he  shut  the  drawer  and  turned  away.  All 
day  long  the  thought  of  that  letter  troubled  him. 
How  could  he  answer  it?  What  could  he  say? 
It  was  an  eager,  expectant  cry  for  help ;  but  he 
had  no  help  to  give.  The  widowed  mother  had 


172  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

asked  him  for  bread ;  and  how  could  he  offe 
her  mere  words  in  return  —  cold,  disappointing 
words ! 

For  two  days  that  letter  remained  in  the 
drawer  where  he  had  placed  it. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  would  say,  as  the  thought 
of  it  now  and  again  intruded.  "I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  write  an  answer.  Say  what  I  will, 
and  the  language  must  seem  to  her  but  heartless 
sentences.  She  cannot  understand  how  greatly 
things  have  changed  with  me  since  she  went 
out  from  Westbrook.  If  she  does  not  hear 
from  me  she  may  think  her  letter  miscarried. 
She,  like  the  rest  of  us,  is  in  God's  hands,  and 
he  will  take  care  of  her.  We  are  of  more 
value  than  the  sparrows." 

But  this  could  not  satisfy  Mr.  Fleetwood.  He 
had  a  conscience,  and  it  would  not  let  him  omit 
a  plain  duty  without  reproof. 

"If  you  have  no  money  to  give,  offer  her  kind 
and  hopeful  words,"  said  the  inward  monitor. 
"Even  the  cup  of  cold  water  must  not  be 
withheld." 

Unable  to  make  peace  with  himself,  Mr.  Fleet- 


ONLY    WORDS.  173 

wood  at  last  sat  down  to  answer  the  widow's 
letter.  He  wrote  a  brief,  kind,  suggestive 
note ;  but,  after  reading  it  over  twice,  tore  it 
up,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  — 

"It  reads  like  mockery.  She  asked  me  for 
bread,  and  it  seems  like  giving  her  a  stone." 

Then  he  tried  it  again,  but  not  much  more  to 
his  satisfaction.  This  answer  he  was  also  about 
destroying,  but  he  checked  himself  with  the 
words,  — 

"I  might  pen  forty  letters,  and  the  last 
would  read  no  better  than  the  first.  Let  this 
one  go." 

And  he  folded,  sealed,  and  directed  it.  The 
next  mail  that  left  Westbrook  bore  it  away  for 
its  remote  destination.  Let  us  return  to  Mrs. 
Maynard. 

"We  should  have  had  an  answer  from  Mr. 
Fleetwood  two  days  ago,  Alice." 

The  daughter  sighed,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  What  time  does  the  mail  from  the  east  come 
in,  Alice?" 

"At  four  o'clock." 

"  Aud  it  is  five  now  ?  " 


174  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Won't  you  put  on  your  bonnet  and  step  over 
to  the  post-office  ?  " 

Alice  went,  but  returned,  as  on  the  two  pre 
vious  days,  with  nothing  in  her  hand. 

"No  letter?"  said  Mrs.  Maynard,  as  she 
came  in. 

"  None,"  was  the  sadly-spoken  reply. 

"O,  why  has  he  not  written?  If  help  come 
not  from  Mr.  Fleetwood,  there  is  no  help  for  us 
in  this  world." 

Another  day  of  waiting,  in  which  that  deferred 
hope  which  maketh  the  heart  sick  trembled  like 
the  light  of  a  taper  flickering  in  the  wind,  passed 
wearily  away.  At  five  o'clock  Alice  was  at  the 
post-office  again.  And  now  a  letter  was  placed 
in  her  hand,  directed  to  her  mother,  and  on  the 
envelope  she  read,  with  a  heart-bound,  the  word 
"  WESTBKOOK."  Not  fleeter  than  her  footsteps 
was  the  wind  as  she  ran  back  home. 

"  A  letter,  and  from  Westbrook  ! "  she  cried 
out,  eagerly,  as  she  entered  the  room  where  her 
mother  sat  anxiously  awaiting  her. 

The    hands    of   Mrs.    Maynard    shook    as    she 


ONLY     WORDS.  175 

opened  and  unfolded  the  long  hoped-for  an 
swer.  It  was  brief,  and  its  contents  fully 
understood  in  a  few  moments.  Alice,  whose 
eyes  were  tixed  eagerly  upon  her  mother  while 
she  read  in  silence,  saw  her  countenance  change, 
grow  pale,  and  the  look  of  hopeful  expectation 
die  out  utterly.  Then,  as  the  letter  dropped  to 
the  floor,  her  hands  were  held  up  against  her 
face  so  as  to  hide  it  from  view,  and  she  sat  with 
the  stillness  of  one  who  had  been  paralyzed. 
Taking  up  the  letter,  Alice  read,  — 

"  MY  DEAR  MADAM  :  Your  letter  has  troubled 
me  deeply ;  and  the  more  so,  because  it  finds 
me  wholly  unable  to  give  that  help  of  which  you 
stand  so  much  in  need.  Since  you  left  West- 
brook  things  have  greatly  changed  with  me  and 
many  others.  I  have  lost  nearly  all  of  my  prop 
erty,  and  find  myself  in  straitened  circumstances. 
It  pains  me  to  write  this;  not  so  much  on  my 
own  account  as  on  yours,  for  it  will  come  to  you 
with  a  chill  of  disappointment.  But  you  and  I 
and  all  of  us  are  in  the  hands  and  under  the  care 
of  One  who  kuowcth  our  wants,  and  who  hear- 


]76  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

eth  even  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry.  You 
have  a  Father  in  heaven,  dear  madam,  and  a 
Father  who  has  not  forgotten  you.  Look  to 
him,  and  hope  in  him.  He  will  not  forsake 
you  in  this  great  extremity.  The  earth  is  his, 
and  the  fulness  thereof.  All  hearts  are  his,  and 
I  am  sure  he  will  turn  some  hearts  to  you  in 
kindness.  There  is  no  night  without  a  succeed 
ing  day.  The  morning  cometh  as  surely  as  the 
evening.  Look  up,  and  trust  in  God.  He  has 
something  for  all  his  children  to  do :  something 
for  you  to  do,  and  your  hands  will  find  the 
work.  It  rnay  now  be  lying,  all  unseen,  around 
you. 

"It  is  in  my  heart  to  offer  deeds  instead  of 
words ;  but  I  can  only  give  of  what  I  possess. 
May    the   widow's   Husband    and   the    orphan's 
Father  succor  you  in  the  hour  of  peril ! 
"Your  friend  in  heart, 

"EDWARD  FLEETWOOD." 

"He  writes  kindly,"  said  Alice,  as  she  finished 
reading  the  letter;  "and  there  is  comfort  even 
in  words,  when  they  come  from  the  lips  of  a 
friend." 


ONLY    WORDS.  177 

"  Words  do  not  feed  the  hungry  nor  clothe  the 
naked,"  answered  Mrs.  Maynard,  in  some  bitter 
ness  of  tone. 

She  had  scarcely  said  this,  when  the  door  of 
the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting  was  pushed 
open,  and  a  boy  about  ten  years  old,  barefooted 
and  meagrely  clad,  came  in  with  a  pitcher  in 
one  hand  and  a  small  basket  in  the  other. 

"Mother  sent  these,  Miss  Maynard,"  he  said, 
with  a  pleased  smile  on  his  face.  The  pitcher 
was  filled  with  new  milk,  and  there  was  a  loaf 
of  bread,  hot  from  the  oven,  in  the  basket. 
"She  says,  please  accept  them." 

"Your  mother  is  very  kind,  Henry,"  replied 
Mrs.  Maynard.  "Tell  her  that  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  her." 

"And  she's  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said 
the  boy. 

"For  what,  Henry?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  And  the  boy  looked  at 
her  in  a  pleased  way. 

Mrs.  Maynard  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  you  remember,  one  day,  when  I  was 
over  here,  that  you  asked  me  if  I  could  read?" 


178  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"  I've  forgotten." 

"  We  haven't,  then,  mother  and  I.  You  isked 
me  if  I  could  read,  and  I  said  no.  Then  you 
told  me  that  I  must  learn  right  away  ;  and  you 
got  a  book  and  showed  me  my  A  B  C's ;  making 
me  go  over  them  a  good  many  times,  until  I 
knew  them  all  by  heart.  Then  you  gave  me 
the  book.  I  have  studied  in  it  almost  every 
day,  and  now  I  can  spell  in  two  syllables." 

"  And  this  is  why  your  mother  sent  me  such  a 
nice  loaf  of  bread  and  a  pitcher  of  new  milk  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  can't  read  yet?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Then  you  must  bring  your  book  over,  and 
let  me  give  you  another  lesson." 

"O,  will  you?"  A  light  like  sunshine  came 
into  the  boy's  face. 

"Yes,  Henry,  and  with  pleasure.  You  may 
come  every  day  if  you  will." 

"May  I?  O,  that  will  be  good!  And,  Mrs. 
Maynard  —  "  Henry  checked  himself.  He  evi 
dently  wished  to  go  a  little  farther. 

"What  is   it,   Henry?"   said  Mrs.    Maynard, 


ONLY    WORDS.  179 

"  May  I  bring  Katy  along  sometimes  ?  She 
wants  to  learn  so  badly.  She  'most  knows  her 
letters." 

"  Why,  yes,  Henry.  Bring  Katy  by  all  means. 
Alice  will  teach  her." 

Henry  glanced  towards  Alice,  as  if  not  fully 
satisfied  in  regard  to  her  view  of  the  case.  But 
she  gave  him  an  assuring  smile  and  word,  and 
the  boy  ran  home  with  light  feet  to  tell  the  good 
news. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Alice?"  said  Mrs. 
Maynard,  looking  at  her  daughter  with  a  coun 
tenance  through  which  a  dim  light  seemed  break 
ing. 

"It  may  be  true  what  Mr.  Fleetwood  says," 
replied  Alice ;  "  the  work  that  God  has  for  us 
to  do  may  be  now  lying,  all  unseen,  around 
us." 

"This  is  no  mere  chance,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Mnynard,  in  a  thoughtful  way. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  said  Alice,  "how  often 
dear  father  used  to  say  that  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  chance?  that  the  hand  of  Providence  was 
in  every  event?  I  felt,  while  reading  Mr.  Fleet- 


180  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

wood's  letter,  as  if  it  was  father  who  was  speak 
ing  to  us." 

Mrs.  Maynard  shut  her  eyes,  and  sat  very  still 
for  many  moments ;  then  she  opened  the  letter, 
which  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  read  it  through 
slowly. 

"It  reads  differently  now.  I  am  sorry  for  Mr. 
Fleetwood.  It  is  hard,  when  years  lay  upon  us 
their  long  accumulating  burdens,  to  find  earthly 
props  suddenly  removed.  Poor  man  !  It  seems 
as  if  he  ought  to  have  been  spared.  What  he 
had  to  give  he  has  given  freely,  and  I  thank  him 
with  grateful  feelings.  Yes,  I  have  a  Father  in 
heaven,  and  I  will  look  up  to  him  in  these  days 
of  darkness.  He  will  show  us  the  way.  Who 
knows  but  the  path  is  now  opening  before  us?" 

"My  own  thought,  mother.  There  are  more 
than  forty  children  in  this  town  who  are  growing 
up  in  as  much  ignorance  as  Henry  Auld  and  his 
sister.  Their  parents  will  not  or  cannot  send 
them  to  school.  These  children  have  immortal 
souls,  and  almost  infinite  capacities,  that  will  be 
developed  for  good  or  for  evil.  They  are  God's 
children.  Let  us  care  for  them,  and  God  will 


ONLY    WORDS.  181 

oare  for  us.  Let  us  take  this  loaf  of  bread  and 
this  pitcher  of  milk  as  the  sign  of  God's  provi 
dence  towards  us.  I  feel,  dear  mother,  that  such 
trust  will  not  be  in  vain.  Mr.  Fleetwood's  let 
ter  has  turned  the  channel  of  my  thoughts  in  a 
new  direction.  May  God  reward  him  for  all  he 
has  said  to  us  in  this  our  time  of  need,  and  said 
so  kindly  and  so  wisely  !  " 

The  daughter's  hope  and  faith  flowed  into  the 
mother's  heart.  They  were  not  indolent,  self- 
indulgent  women.  All  they  asked  was  to  be 
shown  their  work ;  and  now,  in  their  eyes,  it 
seemed  to  be  lying  all  around  them. 

On  the  next  day,  Henry  Auld  came  over  with 
his  sister  Katy,  and  received  the  promised 
lessons. 

"Do  you  know  any  other  little  boys  and  girls 
who  wish  to  learn  how  to  read?"  asked  Mrs. 
Maynard,  as  the  children  were  going  away. 

UO,  yes,  I  know  a  good  many,"  replied  Henry, 
and  then  stood  waiting  to  hear  what  would  come 
next. 

Bring  them  along  when  you  come  to-mor 
row,"  said  Mis.  Maynard.  "It  will  be  as  easy 
to  teach  half  a  dozen  aa  two." 


182  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"Won't  Tom  Jones  be  glad,  though!"  she 
heard  Henry  say  to  his  sister  as  they  went  out 
through  the  gate. 

Three  months  went  by,  and  yet  Mr.  Fleet- 
wood  received  no  response  to  the  answer  which 
he  had  given  to  Mrs.  Maynard's  imploring  letter. 
He  did  not  remember  distinctly  what  he  had 
written.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  sent  her 
mere  words  when  she  asked  for  deeds.  He 
never  thought  of  her  without  a  troubled  feeling. 

"  How  cold  and  heartless  that  letter  must  have 
seemed ! "  he  would  say  to  himself  sometimes. 
"  Ah,  if  she  really  knew  how  it  was  with  me  ! 
If  she  could  see  into  my  breast,  poor  woman  ! 
But  she  is  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  he  is  the 
friend  who  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother." 

At  last  there  came  a  reply  to  his  words  of  en 
couragement  and  hope,  which,  though  flowing 
warm  from  his  heart,  seemed  to  grow  so  cold  in 
the  utterance.  Mrs.  Maynard  wrote,  — 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  More  than  four  months  ago 
you  wrote  to  me,  'You  have  a  Father  in  heaven, 
dear  madam,  and  a  Father  who  has  not  forgotten 


ONLY    WORDS.  183 

you.  Look  to  him,  and  hope  in  him.'  And 
you  said  also,  '  He  has  something  for  all  of  his 
children  to  do ;  something  for  you  to  do,  and 
your  hands  will  find  the  work.  It  may  now  be 
lying,  all  unseen,  around  you.'  My  heart  blesses 
you,  sir,  for  those  hopeful,  suggestive  words. 
Yes  ;  God  had  work  for  me  to  do  —  and  it  was 
lying,  even  when  I  wrote  to  you  in  my  fear  and 
despair,  all  around  me,  though  unseen  by  my 
dull  eyes.  Like  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of 
silver  were  your  fitly  spoken  words.  I  had 
taught  a  child  his  letters,  and  his  poor  but 
grateful  mother  sent  me  in  return  a  loaf  of  bread, 
and  a  pitcher  of  milk  for  my  children.  Your  let 
ter  and  this  offering,  in  God's  providence,  came 
together.  I  had  the  text  and  illustration  side  by 
side.  There  were  many  ignorant  children  in 
our  town,  said  Alice  and  I,  one  to  the  other, 
and  they  are  God's  children.  Let  us  teach  more 
of  them,  as  we  taught  this  child,  taking  that  loaf 
of  bread  and  offering  of  milk  as  a  sign  that  Gotl 
will  provide  for  us  in  the  work.  We  did  not 
hesitate,  but  acted  on  the  suggestion  at  oner. 
And 'now  we  have  over  thirty  poor  little  rhildreu 


184  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

under  our  cure,  and  we  have  not  wanted  for  bread. 
Some  of  the  parents  pay  us  in  money,  some  in 
provisions,  and  some  do  nothing  in  return.  But 
we  take  all  children  who  come.  Yesterday  we 
had  notice  from  the  Town  Council  that  an  ap 
propriation  of  one  hundred  dollars  a  year  had 
been  made  out  of  the  public  funds  for  the  sup 
port  of  our  school  !  Does  not  the  hand  of  a 
wise  and  good  Providence  appear  in  all  this? 
O,  sir,  I  cannot  too  warmly  thank  you  for  the 
wise  words  of  that  timely  letter.  God  bless  you 
for  having  spoken  them  ! 

"  Gratefully  yours, 

"ALICE  MAYNARD." 

"  Only  words ! "  said  Mr.  Fleetwood,  as  he 
folded  the  letter,  with  moist  eyes.  "  Only 
words !  They  seemed  such  a  cold  and  heart 
less  return  for  good  deeds,  asked  pleadingly  and 
in  tears,  that  I  had  to  compel  myself  to  write 
them.  Yet  see  their  good  fruit!  If  we  cannot 
ilo,  1ft  us  speak  kindly  and  hopefully  at  least. 
I  will  not  I'orirrt  the  lesson." 


WHAT    DID    HE    LEAVE?  185 


XIII. 
WHAT   DID   HE   LEAVE? 

"  THAT'S  a  large  funeral.  I  counted  thirty -two 
carriages." 

"  Yes,  sir.  It's  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Ellis.  He 
died  very  rich." 

"How  much  did  he  leave?" 

"A  large  amount  of  money,  sir;  I  don't  know 
how  much.  Some  say  half  a  million  of  dollars  !  " 

"His  death  is  considered  a  great  loss  to  the 
community,  I  presume." 

"Loss,  sir?"  The  man  to  whom  I  was  speak 
ing  looked  up  into  my  face  with  the  air  of  one 
whoie  mind  was  not  exactly  clear  as  to  my 
meaning. 

"  Yes.  A  man  of  his  wealth  must  have  heen 
a  very  useful  man." 

"Useful?  I  don't  know  that  he  was  particu 
larly  useful.  He  was  rich,  and  didn't  care  much 
for  anybody  but  himself." 


THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"Still,  with  his  ample  means,"  said  I,  "even 
though  caring  only  for  himself,  he  must  have 
been  the  promoter  of  large  industrial  enterprises, 
through  which  many  were  benefited." 

The  man  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  What  did  he  do  with  his  money  ?  " 

"I  never  heard  of  his  doing  anything  with  it 
particularly,"  was  the  unsatisfactory  answer. 

"  Money  must  be  used  in  order  to  make  it 
productive.  Was  he  in  no  business?" 

"No,  sir." 

"What,  then,  did  he  do  with  himself?" 

"O,  he  was  always  about  after  bits  of  property 
that  had  to  be  sold.  He  was  sharp  for  bargains 
in  real  estate." 

"Ah,  I  see  how  it  was.  Then  he  did  find  use 
lor  his  money?" 

"In  that  way  he  did.  But  when  a  piece  of 
property  came  into  his  hands,  there  was  an  end 
to  its  improvement.  He  let  other  people  im 
prove  all  around  him,  and  thus  increase  the 
value  of  what  he  owned ;  so  that  he  grew  richer 
and  richer  every  day,  without  putting  his  hand 
to  anything,  or  benefiting  anybody." 


WHAT    DID    HE    LEAVE?  187 

"  This  was  your  million  man  ?  And  so  all  he 
has  left  are  these  property  accumulations  ?  " 

"All." 

"Then  his  death  is  not  regarded  as  a  public 
calamity  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  sir!  It  is  considered  a  public 
benefit." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"He  has  a  couple  of  sons,  and  a  couple  of 
sons-in-law,  who  will  scatter  much  faster  than  he 
saved.  The  moment  they  come  into  possession 
of  his  estate,  it  will  be  divided,  and  lots  of 
ground,  which  ought  to  have  been  improved 
years  ago,  will  be  sold,  and  covered  with  hand 
some  buildings,  thus  giving  trade  and  industry 
a  new  impulse.  Why,  sir,  he  has  been  a  dead 
weight  on  our  town  for  years ;  growing  richer 
and  richer  through  other  people's  enterprise,  and 
yet  not  adding  a  building  himself,  or  in  any  way 
serving  the  common  good." 

"  I  thought,"  said  I,  "  from  the  long  array  of 
carriages,  that  death  had  taken,  in  this  instance, 
a  valued,  and  now  lamented  citizon." 

"  Mere   ostentation,   sir.     But    nobody  is  de- 


188  THE    PEACEMAKEK. 

ceived.  There  are  plenty  of  idle  people,  who 
are  pleased  to  ride  in  funeral  carriages.  Old 
Ellis  will  be  put  away  with  a  grand  flourish  ;  but 
that  will  be  the  last  of  him.  The  black  makes 
all  the  mourning,  -sir." 

"  But,  surely,"  said  I,  "  his  children  are  not 
without  natural  aftection?  You  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  theirs  is  only  the  semblance  of  sorrow  ?  " 

"It  is  my  opinion,  sir,  that  they  are  glad  in 
their  hearts.  Why  not?  He  stood,  hard  and 
unyielding  as  iron,  between  them  and  the  wealth 
they  desired  to  possess.  He  was  cold,  sour- 
tempered,  and  repulsive ;  crushing  out,  by  his 
manner  and  conduct,  all  natural  affection.  They 
had  too  much  policy  to  quarrel  with  him  of  late, 
though  the  time  was  when  hot  words  were  said 
to  pass  between  them." 

"There  are  no  gleams  of  light  in  your  picture," 
said  I. 

"I  copy  from  nature,  and  can  only  give  what 
I  see,"  he  answered.  "There  are  deep  valleys 
where  the  sunlight  never  comes,  as  well  as  gold 
en-tinted  landscapes." 

"I  see  another  funeral,"  said  I,  looking  towards 


WHAT     DID     HE     LEAVE? 

a  distant  part  of  the  cemetery.  "  There  are  but 
two  carriages ;  yet  I  see  a  long  line  of  mourners 
on  foot.  Do  you  know  who  they  are  burying?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  a  rich  man  ?  " 

"No." 

"There  is  no  need  of  asking  what  he  has  left. 
It  is  the  burial  of  a  poor  man." 

"  Yes,  of  a  man  poor  in  this  world's  goods ; 
but,  so  far  as  his  means  went,  he  was  princely 
in  his  munificence.  His  death,  sir,  is  a  public 
loss."  The  man's  face  brightened  as  he  spoke. 

"  You  knew  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  knew  him  well.  He  was  a  rope- 
maker,  working  his  ten  hours  every  day,  and 
earning  just  nine  dollars  a  week.  But  those 
nine  dollars  seemed  an  inexhaustible  fund  for 
good.  He  had  no  wife  and  children  of  his  own 
to  love  and  care  for.  They  went,  years  ago,  to 
the  blessed  land  where  he  is  now  following  them. 
So,  after  supplying  his  own  humble  needs,  the 
rope-maker  h:id  five  dollars  every  week  left  over 
for  investment.  He  did  not  put  this  in  the  Sav 
ings  Bank,  nor  buy  tumble-down  houses  for  the 


190  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

poor  to  live  in  at  a  rent  of  fifty  per  cent,  on  their 
cost,  nor  take  up  barren  lots  to  hold  for  an 
advance  in  price,  consequent  on  neighboring  im 
provements.  No ;  his  investments  were  made  in 
a  different  spirit,  as  you  shall  see. 

"First,  he  paid  regularly,  every  week,  to  a 
poor  woman  in  his  neighborhood,  who  had  two 
children  to  support,  and  who  could  not  leave 
them  to  go  out  to  work  in  families,  the  sum  of 
three  dollars,  as  teacher  of  little  boys  and  girls 
whose  parents  were  unable  to  send  them  to 
school.  Two  hours  in  the  morning,  and  two  in 
the  afternoon,  these  poor  children  received  in 
struction.  He  was  their  benefactor,  and  hers 
also ;  for  it  was  one  of  his  sayings,  that  we  must 
make  the  right  hand  help  the  left  hand.  His 
means  of  doing  good  were  small,  and  so  he  made 
them  go  as  far  as  possible." 

"  He  was  a  noble  fellow  ! "  said  I,  in  admira 
tion  of  this  poor  rope-maker. 

"Tom  Peters  —  yes,  there  was  fine  stuff  in  his 
composition,  if  his  hands  were  dark  and  bony, 
and  if  his  clothes  did  smell  of  pitch  and  rosin." 

"  He  has  left  tender  and  fragrant  memories." 


WHAT    DID     HE    LEAVE? 

u  He  has,  sir.  That  long  line  of  funeral  attend 
ants  are  all  true  mourners.  There  is  no  sham 
there  ! " 

"And  what  else  did  he  do  with  his  money?" 
I  asked,  growing  interested  in  the  rope-maker. 
"He  had  two  dollars  a  week,  still,  for  dispensa 
tion." 

"  Yes.  Let  me  see.  For  one  thing,  he  paid 
a  boy  half  a  dollar  a  week  to  read  two  hours 
every  evening  to  a  poor  blind  woman ;  and  in 
order  that  this  reading  might  not  be  given  to  a 
single  pair  of  ears  alone,  he  took  care  to  have 
the  fact  known,  that  as  many  as  chose  might 
come  and  listen.  The  consequence  was,  that 
more  than  a  dozen  persons  met,  every  evening, 
in  the  blind  woman's  room,  to  hear  what  was 
read.  This  suggested  to  Tom  the  way  in  which 
another  half  dollar  might  be  usefully  invested. 
The  men  in  the  rope- walk  were  mostly  in  the 
habit  of  spending  their  evenings  in  taverns. 
Tom  found  another  lad  who  was  a  tolerably  good 
reader,  and  paid  him  half  a  dollar  weekly  to  read 
aloud  two  hours,  each  evening,  for  such  of  his 
fellow-workmen  as  he  could  induce  to  assemble 


192  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

for  the  purpose.  He  began  with  three ;  soon 
increased  to  ten ;  and  when  I  last  heard  of  the 
matter,  over  twenty  men  met  nightly  to  hear  the 
boy  read." 

"Admirable!"  said  I,  with  enthusiasm.  "Ad 
mirable  !  I  never  heard  of  a  wiser  investment. 
And  he  had  one  dollar  left  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How  was  that  disposed  of?  " 

"In  ways  innumerable.  I  cannot  recount 
them.  The  good  Tom  Peters  managed  to  do 
with  that  dollar  is  almost  fabulous ;  not,  of 
course,  as  to  magnitude,  but  as  to  variety.  It 
seemed  to  duplicate  itself,  like  the  widow's  oil 
and  meal,  whenever  drawn  upon.  Yon  were 
always  hearing  of  some  good  acts  in  which  a 
dispensation  of  money  was  involved  ;  —  of  a  poor 
woman  helped  in  making  up  her  rent ;  of  a 
dainty  sent  to  a  sick  neighbor  ;  of  a  pair  of  shoes 
to  a  barefoot  boy  in  winter ;  or  of  a  book  to  a 
child.  Why,  sir,  Tom  Peters  has  left  behind 
him  enough  good  deeds  to  endow  a  whole  cal 
endar  of  saints  ! " 

"So  I  should  think,  after  what  you  have  said 
of  him." 


WHAT     DTD     HE     LEAVE?  193 

"And  yet,  sir,  remember,  he  only  earned  nine 
dollars  a  week  !  " 

"I  remember  that  very  distinctly,"  I  answered. 
"Yes,  sir,  his  death  is  indeed  a  public  calamity. 
It  is  no  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  his  grave 
will  be  watered  by  tears." 

"None,  sir,  none.  He  will  be  sorrowed  for 
by  hundreds,  and  his  memory  will  be  greener 
and  more  fragrant  as  the  years  pass  by.  He 
built  his  own  monument  before  he  left  us  —  of 
good  deeds." 

I  parted  from  the  stranger ;  and  as  I  walked 
from  the  cemetery,  I  said  to  another  man  who 
stood  by  my  side  while  I  looked  at  a  fine  piece 
of  emblematic  statuary, — 

"  They  have  been  burying  a  rich  man  ?  " 

"Yes,"  was  coldly  responded. 

"What  did  he  leave?" 

"  Nothing  but  money." 

"They  have  been  burying  a  poor  man,  also?" 

"  Tom  Peters."  A  light  broke  over  the  man's 
face. 

"But  he  had  not  even  money  to  leave,*' 
said  I. 

13 


194  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

K  But  something  far  better,"  answered  the  man, 
in  a  tone  of  rebuke. 

"What?" 

"  Good  acts,  which,  like  good  seed,  will  repro 
duce  themselves  a  thousand  fold.  Tom  Peters 
earned  just  nine  dollars  a  week  ;  Edward  Ellis, 
Esq." — there  was  a  cutting  contempt  in  his 
tones  —  "was  worth,  it  is  said,  a  million  of  dol 
lars  ;  yet  the  humble  rope-maker  did,  while  liv 
ing,  a  hundred  times  the  most  good  with  his 
money,  and  leaves  an  estate  that  shall  go  on  in 
creasing  in  value  through  countless  years.  But 
the  estate  of  old  Ellis  will  not  pass  to  the  third 
generation.  Tom  Peters  had  the  true  riches, 
sir,  that  are  imperishable.  People  ask,  when  a 
man  like  Ellis  dies,  '  What  property  has  he  left 
behind  him?'  But  when  one  like  our  good 
rope-maker  passes  away,  the  angels  ask,  '  What 
good  deeds  has  he  sent  before  him?'  That  is 
the  difference,  sir,  the  immeasurable  difference, 
between  the  two  men.  One,  in  giving,  made 
himself  rich ;  the  other,  in  withholding,  became 
miserably  poor;  so  poor,  that  his  memory  ia 
green  in  no  man's  heart." 


WHAT    DID    HE    LEAVE?  195 

I  turned  from  the  cemetery  with  some  new 
impressions  stirring  in  my  mind,  and  the  ques 
tion,  "What  kind  of  a  legacy  will  you  leave?" 
pressing  itself  home  to  my  thoughts. 

"  Let  it  be  good  deeds  rather  than  money  ! " 
I  said,  half  aloud,  in  the  glow  of  earnest  feeling, 
and  went  back  again  into  the  living,  busy,  stir 
ring  world,  to  take  up  the  laboring  oar  which  I 
had  laid  down,  in  weariness,  for  a  brief  season, 
and  bend  to  my  work  with  a  serener  spirit,  and, 
I  trust,  a  nobler  life-purpose. 


11)6  THE    PEACEMAKER. 


XIV. 

THE   MOTHERLESS   BOY. 

ONE  day  the  door  of  my  sitting-room  was 
thrown  suddenly  open,  and  the  confident  voice 
of  my  little  sou  Harvey  thus  introduced  a 
stranger :  — 

"  Here's  Jim  Peters,  mother  !  " 

I  looked  up,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  sight 
of  a  ragged,  barefoot  child,  with  whose  face, 
neck,  and  hands,  clean  water  had  for  some  time 
been  a  stranger.  Before  I  had  time  to  say  any 
thing,  Harvey  went  on  :  — 

"  He  lives  round  in  Blake's  Court,  and  hasn't 
any  mother ;  and  I  want  you  to  give  him  a  pair 
of  my  shoes,  and  my  gray  cap,  and  some  of  my 
clothes.  I've  got  plenty,  you  know." 

My  eyes  rested  on  the  child's  face  while  my 
boy  said  this.  It  was  a  very  sad  little  face, 
thin  and  colorless ;  not  bold  and  vicious,  but 
timid,  and  having  a  look  of  patient  suffering. 


THE    MOTHERLESS    BOY. 

Harvey  held  him  firmly  by  the  hand,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  bravely  protects  the  weak. 

"  No  mother ! "  said  I,  in  tones  of  pity. 

"No,  ma'am,  he  hasn't  any  mother.  Have 
you,  Jim?" 

"No,"  answered  the  child. 

"  She's  been  dead  ever  so  long ;    hasn't  she 
Jim?" 

"Yes,  ever  since  last  winter,"  he  said,  as  he 
fixed  his  eyes,  into  which  I  saw  the  tears  coming, 
upon  my  face.  My  heart  moved  towards  him, 
repulsive  as  he  was  because  of  his  rags  and 
dirt. 

"One  of  God's  little  lambs,  straying  on  the 
cold  and  barren  hills  of  life,"  said  a  voice  in  my 
heart.  And  then  I  felt  a  tender  compassion  for 
the  strange,  unlovely  child. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  I  asked. 

"  Round  in  Blake's  Court,"  he  replied. 

"Who  with?" 

"Old  Mrs.  Flint;  but  she  doesn't  want  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"O,  'Because  I'm  nothing  to  her,  she  says; 
and  she  doesn't  want  the  trouble  of  me."  Ho 


J98  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

tried  to  say  this  in  a  brave,  don't  care  sort  of 
way,  but  his  voice  faltered,  and  he  dropped  his 
eyes  to  the  floor.  How  pitiful  he  looked  ! 

"Poor  child  !  "   I  could  not  help  saying  aloud. 

Light  flashed  over  his  pale  face.  It  was 
something  new  to  him,  this  interest  and  com 
passion. 

"One  of  God's  little  lambs."  I  heard  the 
voice  in  my  heart  saying  this  again.  Nobody  to 
love  him ;  nobody  to  care  for  him.  Poor  little 
boy !  The  hand  of  my  own  child,  my  sou  who 
is  so  very  dear  to  me,  had  led  him  in  through 
our  door,  and  claimed  for  him  the  love  and  care 
so  long  a  stranger  to  his  heart.  Could  I  send 
him  out,  and  shut  the  door  upon  him,  when  I 
knew  that  he  had  no  mother  and  no  home  ?  If  I 
heeded  not  the  cry  of  this  little  one,  precious  in 
God's  sight,  might  I  not  be  thought  unworthy 
to  be  the  guardian  of  another  lamb  of  his  fold, 
whom  I  loved  as  my  own  life? 

"I've  got  heaps  of  clothes,  mother;  a  great 
many  more  than  I  want.  And  my  bed  is  wide. 
There's  room  enough  in* the  house;  and  we've 
plenty  to  eat,"  said  Harvey,  pleading  for  the 


THE    MOTHERLESS    BOY.  199 

child.  I  could  not  withstand  all  these  appeals. 
Rising,  I  told  the  little  stranger  to  follow  me. 
When  we  came  back  to  the  sitting-room,  half  an 
hour  afterwards,  Jim  Peters  would  hardly  have 
been  known  by  his  old  acquaintances,  if  any  of 
them  had  been  there.  A  bath  and  clean  clothes 
had  made  a  wonderful  change  in  him. 

I  watched  the  poor  little  boy,  as  he  and  Harvey 
played  during  the  afternoon,  with  no  little  con 
cern  of  mind.  What  was  I  to  do  with  him? 
Clean  and  neatly  dressed,  there  was  a  look  of 
refinement  about  the  child,  which  had  nearly  all 
been  hidden  by  rags  and  dirt.  He  played  gen 
tly,  and  his  voice  had  in  it  a  sweetness  of  tone, 
as  it  fell  every  now  and  then  upon  my  ears,  that 
Aras  really  winning.  Send  him  back  to  Mrs. 
Flint's,  in  Blake's  Court?  The  change  I  had 
wrought  upon  him  made  this  impossible.  No, 
he  could  not  be  sent  back  to  Mrs.  Flint's,  who 
didn't  want  the  trouble  of  him.  What  then? 

Do  the  kind  hearts  of  my  little  readers  re 
peat  the  question,  "  What  then?"  Do  they  want 
very  much  to  know  what  has  become  of  little 
Jim  Peters? 


200  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

It  is  just  a  year  since  my  boy  led  him  in  from 
the  street,  and  Jim  is  still  in  our  house.  No 
one  came  for  him.  No  one  inquired  about  him. 
No  one  cared  for  him.  I  must  take  that  last 
sentence  back.  God  cared  for  him,  and  by  the 
hand  of  my  tender-hearted  son  brought  him  into 
my  comfortable  home,  and  said  to  me,  "  Here 
is  one  of  my  lambs,  estray,  hungry,  and  cold. 
He  was  born  into  the  world  that  he  might  be 
come  an  angel  in  heaven,  but  is  in  danger  of 
being  lost.  I  give  him  into  your  care.  Let  me 
find  him  when  I  call  my  sheep  by  their  names." 

Not  by  a  voice,  dear  children,  speaking 
through  my  outward  ears  did  he  say  this.  But 
these  thoughts  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  knew 
that  he  sent  them.  And  so  I  drew  the  shivering 
estray  into  the  warm  fold  where  my  own  lamb 
dwelt,  and  there  he  has  been  ever  since. 

As  I  finished  writing  the  last  sentence,  a  voice 
close  to  my  ear  said,  "Mother."  I  turned,  and 
received  a  loving  kiss  from  the  lips  of  Jim.  He 
often  does  this.  I  think,  in  the  midst  of  his 
happy  plays,  memory  takes  him  back  to  the  suf 
fering  past,  and  then  his  grateful  heart  runs  over, 


THE     MOTHERLESS     BOY.  201 

and  he  tries  to  reward  me  with  a  loving  kiss.  I 
did  not  tell  him  to  call  me  u  mother."  At  first 
he  said  it  in  a  timid,  hesitating  way,  and  with 
such  a  pleading,  half-scared  look,  that  I  was 
touched  and  softened. 

"She  isn't  your  real  mother,"  said  Harvey, 
who  happened  to  be  near ;  "  but  then  she's  good, 
and  loves  you  ever  so  much." 

"And  I  love  her,"  answered  Jim,  with  a  great 
throb  in  his  throat,  hiding  his  face  in  my  lap, 
and  clasping  and  kissing  my  hand.  Since  then 
he  always  calls  me  "  mother ; M  and  the  God  and 
Father  of  us  all  has  sent  into  my  heart  a  moth 
er's  love  for  him ;  and  I  pray  that  he  may  be 
mine  when  I  come  to  make  up  my  jewels  in 
heaven. 


202  THE    PEACEMAKER. 


XV. 

OIL  ON  THE  WATERS  OF  PASSION. 

"I  HAVE  been  badly  treated  —  very  badly!" 
said  Arnold  Williams,  speaking  to  a  friend,  with 
much  excitement  of  feeling. 

"  So  I  think,"  was  answered,  "  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  yon  are  indignant." 

"  It  was  so  wanton  !  " 

"  Which  but  increases  the  provocation." 

"If  we  had  been  alone  when  he  said  it,  I 
wouldn't  have  cared.  But  the  remark,  taking 
time  and  place,  was  offensive  in  the  highest 
degree." 

"I  would  have  knocked  him  down  on  the 
spot,"  said  the  friend. 

"  A  thing  I  was  tempted  to  do,  but  controlled 
myself." 

"The  lesson  would  have  done  him  good,  and 
been  a  warning  to  young  gentlemen  of  his  class 
to  put  their  tongues  under  better  discipline." 


OIL    ON    THE    WATERS    OF    PASSION.    203 

"I  didn't  spare  him,  you  may  be  certain.  I 
always  pay  such  obligations  on  the  spot.  He'll 
scarcely  forget  my  cutting  answer  to  his  ungen- 
tlemanly  remark.  It. went  home  as  surely  SL% 
the  thrust  of  a  sword." 

"  So  far  so  good.  My  words  would  have 
pierced  him  like  a  pistol  shot.  If  he  had  tried 
that  sport  on  me,  I  would  have  sent  a  friend  to 
him  before  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning." 

"If  he  had  possessed  any  spirit,"  said  Wil 
liams,  "he  would  have  sent  a  friend  to  me  ere 
this ;  for  I  disgraced  him  before  all  the  com 
pany." 

The  story  of  this  rupture  between  two  young 
men  who  had  been  fast  friends  for  years  is  told 
in  a  few  words.  They  had  met  in  a  small  com 
pany  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,,  who  were  discuss 
ing  the  matter  of  fancy  dresses  to  be  worn  at  a 
private  costume  party  t;o  which  all  were  invited. 
Williams  was  perpjexed  in  regard  to  his  own 
selection,  and,,  as,  usually  happens  on  such  occa 
sions,  each  one  of  the  company  had  some  sug 
gestion  to  make.  He  listened,  objected,  anc' 
declined  in  a  half-amused,  half-serious  manner. 


204  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

when  a  young  man  named  Hogan,  with  whom  ho 
was  on  very  friendly  terms,  said,  without  reflec 
tion,  and  with  a  friendly  presumption  on  their 
intimacy,  — 

"Go  in  the  character  of  a  gentleman,  Wil 
liams.  That  will  be  entirely  new." 

He  expected  this  little  sally  of  wit  to  be  re 
ceived  with  a  laughing  response  by  his  friend ; 
but  not  so ;  it  happened  to  come  just  in  the 
wrong  time  and  place,  for  there  was  a  young 
lady  present,  into  whose  ears  he  wished  no  such 
words  of  rude  familiarity  to  enter.  His  face 
flushed  instantly,  and  fire  flashed  from  his  eyes. 
He  was  overcome  with  an  angry  spirit. 

"A  true  gentleman,"  he  retorted,  sharply, 
"never  forgets  himself." 

"Did  you  mean  that  for  an  insult?"  inquired 
Hogau,  his  whole  manner  changing. 

"I  meant  the  words  for  you,  and  you  can  tako 
them  as  yon  please,"  was  answered,  roughly. 

Hogan  turned  away  and  left  the  company, 
and  Williams  felt  too  embarrassed  and  uncom 
fortable  to  remain. 

Dich  of  fho  young  mrn   told  his  own  story, 


OIL   ON   THE   WATERS   OF   PASSION.    205 

and  with  his  own  coloring,  and  the  friends  of 
each  condemned  the  other's  conduct  iir  terms 
of  unmeasured  denunciation  ;  thus  widening  the 
distance  between  the  estranged  friends. 

"If  he  had  been  a  gentleman  at  heart,  he 
never  would  have  taken  offence,"  said  one  of 
the  friends  of  Hogan.  "  You  happened  to  touch 
him  in  a  tender  spot." 

"If  he  had  been  a  gentleman  he  never  would 
have  insulted  me  on  that  slight  provocation," 
replied  Hogan.  "He  knew,  as  well  as  I  did, 
that  my  words  were  only  spoken  in  jest.  There 
is  something  wrong  at  the  bottom  of  his  charac 
ter.  We  never  know  men  until  we  take  them 
unawares." 

"You  did  not  mean  to  wound  or  insult  him." 

"  Me  !  No ;  the  kindest  feelings  were  in  my 
breast." 

"  But  he  meant  to  insult  you." 

"Undoubtedly.  He  thrust  at  me  with  a 
malignant  spirit." 

"Seeking  to  disgrace  you  in  the  eyes  of  all 
who  were  present." 

"  Yos,  I  saw  :md  felt  that."  . 


206  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

"  Make  him  apologize." 

"He  will  never  do  it,"  said  Hogan. 

"  He  must.  An  insult  is  never  wiped  out  ex 
cept  by  apology  or  punishment.  Make  me 
your  friend  in  the  case,  and  I  will  see  you 
through  the  whole  affair,  right." 

"I  am  in  your  hands,"  replied  Hogan,  though 
in  a  manner  that  said,  plainly  enough,  "  I  wish  I 
were  out  of  your  hands." 

There  was  a  third  person  present  during  this 
interview,  who  listened,  but  said  nothing.  No 
appeal  was  made  to  him,  and  he  expressed  no 
opinion.  Seeing  the  course  things  were  about 
taking,  and  wishing  to  have  nothing  to  do  in 
such  affairs,  he  withdrew  himself.  But  he  could 
not  thrust  the  matter  from  his  thoughts ;  and 
the  more  he  pondered  it  the  more  troubled  he 
felt.  He  knew  both  Williams  and  Hogan  very 
well.  They  were  young  men  of  good  charac 
ters  and  right  feelings  in  the  main.  The 
parents  of  both  were  living ;  and  both  had  sis 
ters,  and  a  wide  circle  of  friends.  The  incite 
ment  to  a  hostile  meeting  between  the  two,  on 
so  slight  a  provocation  —  a  meeting  likely  to  end 


OIL  ON  THE   WATERS   OF   PASSION.    207 

in  the  death  of  one  or  both  of  them  —  seemed 
to  him  such  a  fiendish  outrage,  that  the  thought 
of  it,  when  fully  presented,  made  his  blood 
curdle. 

"If  Williams  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  u.s 
bad  an  adviser,"  he  said,  "the  most  disastrous 
consequences  may  follow." 

Then  it  was  suggested  in  his  thought  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  see  Williams  and  volunteer  his 
friendly  offices,  in  order  to  prevent  another,  less 
discreet,  from  gaining  an  influence  over  him. 
But  he  tried  to  thrust  aside  the  suggestion.  It 
was  a  business  in  which  he  preferred  to  have  no 
hand.  If  people  would  quarrel  and  fight,  let 
them  exhaust  their  bad  passions  upon  themselves. 
Still  his  mind  would  not  rest.  The  dreadful 
consequences  likely  to  flow  from  the  utterance 
of  a  few  angry  words  formed  themselves  into 
palpable  images  in  his  mind,  and  haunted  him 
with  horrors.  He  saw  the  two  men  going  forth 
to  a  hostile  meeting,  saw  them  take  their  fatal 
position,  saw  the  deadly  aim,  and  heard  the 
death-dealing  shot;  and,  still  more,  saw  the 
manly  form  of  Arnold  Williams  prone  upon  the 


208  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

ground,  bleeding  and  lifeless.  A  cold  shudder 
ran  to  his  heart,  He  could  repress  right  im 
pulses  no  longer. 

"i  must  see  Williams,  and  prevent  these  awful 
consequences,"  he  said,  and  acted  without  delay 
from  this  better  resolution.  He  found  the 
young  man  alone.  Instead  of  doing  as  every 
one  else  had  done,  —  add  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his 
anger,  —  he  soothed  his  chafed  feelings,  and  sug 
gested,  but  delicately  and  remotely,  palliating 
thoughts  that  were  not  without  their  influence. 
He  was  yet  with  him  when  the  friend  (  ?)  of  Ho- 
gan  called,  and  m  a  manner  calculated  to  increase 
the  bad  feelings  of  Williams,  put  in  the  demand 
of  his  principal  for  an  apology.  Williams  was 
about  flinging  back  an  offensive  refusal,  when 
his  friend  said,  quickly,  so  as  to  forestall  him,  — 

"  Let  me  act  for  you  in  this  matter,  which  is 
now  assuming  a  more  serious  aspect."  Then, 
speaking  to  the  representative  of  Hogan,  he 
said,  "  I  will  see  you  at  your  office  in  an  hour." 

The  latter  expressed  approval,  and  immedi 
ately  retired.  A  deep,  troubled  silence  followed 
his  withdrawal. 


OIL  ON   THE    WATERS    OF   PASSION.    209 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  Williams  was  first 
to  speak. 

"Have  you  confidence  in  my  judgment  and 
discretion?"  asked  the  friend. 

"I  have,"  was  the  unhesitating  answer. 

"Will  you  be  guided  by  me?" 

"  I  must  first  know  in  what  direction  you  pro 
pose  guiding  me." 

"  Your  honor  must  be  preserved  inviolate," 
sa;d  the  friend. 

"It  must,"  was  the  firm  reply. 

"All  true  honor  lies  in  right  principle  and 
right  action.  All  else  is  but  tinsel  and  dross." 

Williams  looked  earnestly  into  the  face  of  his 
friend. 

"  There  was  a  first  wrong,  somewhere,  in  this 
unhappy  business." 

"There  was,  and  that  wrong  was  with  Hogau. 
He  meant  to  insult  me." 

"On  the  contrary,  he  says  that  he  meant 
neither  to  wound  nor  insult  you  ;  that  he  mere 
ly  spoke  with  thoughtless  jesting,  while  the 
kindest  feelings  were  in  his  heart." 

"  Who  heard  him  say  this?  " 
14 


210  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

« I  did." 

"When?" 

"Not  an  hour  ago." 

"  Why,  then,  has  he  sent  me  this  demand  for 
an  apology  ?  " 

"Through  the  bad  advice  of  a  pretended 
friend,  whose  evil  designs  I  wish  to  make  fruit 
less.  And  now,  Williams,  let  me  ask  you  one 
question,  —  Did  you  not  mean  to  wound  and 
insult  Hogan,  when  you  replied  to  his  untimely 
jest?" 

"I  did." 

"Which,  then,  was  most  in  the  wrong?" 

Williams  was  silent. 

"Intention  gives  quality  to  every  act,"  said 
the  friend.  "  Hogan  affirms  that  the  kindest 
feelings  were  in  his  heart  when  he  spoke ;  you 
that  you  meant  to  wound  and  insult." 

Williams  bowed  his  head,  and  let  his  eyes  rest 
upon  the  floor.  The  calmly-spoken,  truthful 
words  of  a  real  friend  had  brought  conviction 
to  his  mind. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  There  was  a  troubled 
tone  in  his  voice,  and  a  troubled  look  in  hia 
countenance. 


OIL   ON  THE   WATERS   OF  PASSION.    211 

"Do  right." 

"What  is  right?" 

"It  is  always  right,  noble,  honorable  to  re 
pair  a  wrong." 

"  He  demands  an  apology."  ' 

"Well?" 

"  I  cannot  apologize  under  a  threat." 

"A  high  moral  courage  asks  only  what  is 
right,  and  does  right  in  the  face  of  all  prejudice, 
misapprehension,  or  reproach.  The  bravery  that 
withstands  false  opinion  is  deepest  laid." 

"  I  am  not  brave  enough  to  apologize  at  this 
stage  of  the  affair,"  said  Williams,  gloomily. 
"Friends  and  enemies  would  brand  me  as  a 
coward." 

"  Suppose  he  were  to  withdraw  the  chal 
lenge?" 

Williams  was  silent. 

"You  thought  he  meant  to  insult  you,"  said 
the  friend. 

"I  did." 

"And  was,  therefore,  indignant.  Now,  sup 
pose  Hogan  were  present  in  this  room,  and  were 
to  say  that  he  only  uttered  a  thoughtless  jest, 


212  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

and  did  not  design  the  slightest  offence.  What 
would  you  do?" 

"Withdraw  the  words  I  uttered." 

"  Enough  !     How  long  will  you  remain  here  ?  " 

"As  long  as  you  desire.  I  have  accepted 
your  friendly  offices  in  this  matter,  and  am  in 
your  hands.  But  don't  commit  me  in  anything. 
I  am  no  coward." 

"  You  may  trust  me  safely.  I  will  protect 
your  honor  as  fully  as  if  it  were  my  own." 

Instead  of  going  to  the  false  friend,  or  second, 
of  Hogan,  the  friend  of  Williams  called  upon 
Hogan  himself. 

"  If  I  heard  correctly,"  he  said,  "you  remarked 
a  little  while  ago  that  in  advising  Williams  to  go 
in  the  character  of  a  gentleman,  as  something 
entirely  new,  you  only  spoke  thoughtlessly  and 
in  jest." 

"  It  was  only  designed  as  a  pleasantry.  How 
could  he  have  seen  it  in  any  other  light?  Our 
intimacy  warranted,  I  thought,  the  familiarity. 
It  seems  that  I  was  mistaken." 

"  He  must  have  believed  you  in  earnest,  or  he 
never  would  have  retorted  in  a  manner  that  was 
offensive.  Who  were  present?" 


OIL  ON   THE   WATERS   OF  PASSION.    213 

"  Miss  Wilkins,  Mary  Hart  well,  Florence 
Adair,  and  two  or  three  young  men  besides 
ourselves." 

"  Ah,  I  see  the  trouble  now  !  "  said  the  friend 
of  Williams. 

"I  am  in  the  dark,"  replied  Hogan. 

"He  wishes  to  appear  well  in  the  eyes  of 
Florence  Adair." 

"I  am  sorry  he  made  himself  look  so  ill 
Miss  Adair  was  disgusted  at  his  ungentlemanl, 
retort." 

"  I  think  you  were  both  wrong,"  said  the 
young  man,  not  appearing  to  notice  this  last 
remark,  "he  most  of  all;  but  you  wrong  in 
venturing  upon  a  witty  thrust  that  might  occa 
sion  unpleasant  feelings." 

"  I  was  wrong  in  that,  I  know,"  replied 
Ilogan. 

"  And,  therefore,  as  the  originator,  even  with 
out  design,  of  this  unhappy  misunderstanding, 
is  it  not  your  duty  to  take  the  lirst  step  towards 
a  reconciliation?" 

Ilogan  was  in  no  way  prepared  for  a  sugges 
tion  like  this,  and  looked  at  the  young  man  in 
mute  astonishment. 


214  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"  He  insulted  me  grossly ;  and  that  forecloses 
the  matter,"  said  Hogau,  at  length,  speaking 
with  some  indignation  in  his  voice. 

"Not  wantonly,"  said  the  other;  "he  thought 
you  had  offered  him  an  insult,  and,  on  the  im 
pulse  of  the  moment,  resented  it,  as  you  would 
have  done." 

"Nothing  was  farther  from  my  mind  than  to 
offer  an  insult." 

"  But  he  believed  differently.  And  you  must 
admit  that  the  language  used,  however  witty, 
was  scarcely  allowable,  time  and  circumstances 
considered." 

"  I  admit  all  that,  and  have  blamed  myself  a 
hundred  times  since  for  my  thoughtlessness." 

"Why  not,  then,  say  so  to  Williams?  My 
word  for  it,  he  will  instantly  retract  his  own 
offensive  language." 

"But  1  have  demanded  an  apology  from  him," 
said  llogan. 

"Don't,  let  me  beg  of  you,  as  a  friend,  place 
yourself  in  a  wrong  position.  True  honor  re 
spects  the  rights  of  others.  Don't  forget  that 
you  and  Williams  have  been  friends  for  years. 


OIL  ON   THE  WATFRS   OF   PASSION.     215 

You  know  him  intimately,  and  know  that  he 
must  have  been  thrown  strangely  off  of  his 
guard  when  he  applied  to  you  such  unjust 
language.  But  it  was  your  act  that  threw  him 
off  of  his  guard ;  and  now  th.it  you  are  hurt  by 
his  impulsive  action,  you  should  not  complain 
too  loudly,  nor  feel  too  bitterly.  Take  but  one 
step  in  the  right  direction,  and  all  will  be  well." 

Hogan  saw  with  different  eyes.  Since  the 
unhappy  event  that  separated  him  from  his 
friend,  this  was  the  first  instance  in  which 
any  one  had  sought  to  throw  oil  upon  the 
troubled  waters  of  passion. 

"I  know,"  said  the  friend,  -that  Williams 
deeply  regrets  the  language  applied  to  you  in 
sudden  anger." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  From  his  own  confession." 

The  struggle  in  the  mind  of  Hoga-i  between 
pride  and  right  feelings  was  vigorous,  but 
brief.  Right  conquered. 

"Will  you  bear  a  word  from  me  to  Wil 
liams?"  he  said. 

"  Why  not  bear  it  yourself?  " 


216  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

Hogan  started  in  new  surprise. 

"  Impossible ! " 

"  Why  not  let  this  reconciliation  be  complete  ? 
See  your  old  friend  face  to  face.  I  will  go  with 
you.  There  is  kindness  in  his  heart,  as  there  is 
in  yours.  He  is  a  man  of  honor  and  principle. 
So  are  you.  Friends  grow  not  thick  on  every 
bough.  Do  not,  then,  give  up  a  true  friend  for 
the  false  ones  who  are  so  ready  to  widen  this 
breach  and  drive  you  asunder  forever.  Come  !  " 

A  few  minutes  later,  and  the  suddenly  es 
tranged  friends  stood  face  to  face. 

"Williams,"  said  Hogan,  as  he  reached  out  his 
hand,  "I  only  jested.  There  was  no  temptation 
for  me  to  offer  an  insult,  for  I  valued  you  too 
highly  as  a  friend.  Forgive  the  indiscretion." 

Almost  wildly  his  hand  was  seized,  as  a  voice, 
tremulous  with  feeling,  made  answer,  — 

"It  is  I  who  should  ask  forgiveness,  for  a  sud 
den  anger  was  in  m\  heart,  and  I  meant  to 
wound.  I  recall  the  words  to  which  my  foolish 
lips  gave  utterance.  Can  you  forget  them?" 

"They  are  forgotten,  my  friend,"  was  nobly 
answered,  "  and  I  shall  class  him  with  my  cue- 


OIL  ON  T.HE   WATERS   OF   PASSION.     217 

mies  who  seeks  to  recall  them  to  my  recollec 
tion." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  the  friend  whose  good 
offices  had  brought  this  unhappy  affair  to  so 
pleasant  a  termination  entered  the  room  of  the 
fiery-tempered  young  man  whose  evil  genius 
prompted  him  to  advise  the  most  extreme  meas 
ures.  Hogan  was  with  him. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  say,"  remarked  the  latter, 
"  that  we  have  settled  this  unfortunate  business." 

"  Indeed  !  "  The  second  might  well  look  sur 
prised.  "How?  Did  Williams  apologize ?" 

"No,  but  I  did." 

"  You ! "  The  young  man  stepped  back  a 
pace  or  two,  looking  blank  with  astonishment. 

"Yes.     I  gave  the  first  offence." 

"  But  he  insulted  you  ! " 

"He  has  withdrawn  it." 

"First?" 

"No.  I  apologized  first,  because  my  offence 
was  first.  The  moment  I  said  that  I  had  no 
intention  of  wounding  him,  that  I  had  spoken 
only  in  jest,  he  seized  my  hand,  and  made 
the  amplest  retraction.  We  are  friends  again. 


218  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

And  now,  let  me  thank  you  for  the  offer  of 
.service  recently  made  and  accepted.  But  let 
me,  in  all  kindness,  say,  that  I  do  not  think  you 
acted  wisely  or  humanely.  Had  I  suffered  your 
counsels  to  prevail,  the  saddest  consequences 
might  have  followed.  Hereafter,  instead  of 
seeking  to  inflame  anger,  be  the  healer  and  the 
pacifier.  Instead  of  stirring  up  strife  between 
men  and  brethren,  pour,  rather,  the  oil  of  peace 
on  the  troubled  waters  of  passion." 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  219 


XVI. 

AN  INDIGNATION   VISIT. 

i 

"Ir  Ruthy  Ann  Johnson  said  that,  she's  no 
lady ! "  The  black  eyes  of  Mrs.  Pendergrass 
flashed  fire. 

"  Well,  she  did  say  it,  and  a  little  more." 

Very  quiet  and  very  insinuating  was  the  voice 
that  said  this.  It  came  from  a  little  woman,  who 
looked  almost  too  insignificant  for  a  mischief- 
maker. 

"  That  my  Hester  was  as  ugly  as  sin  !  " 

"  Her  very  words." 

"What  else  did  she  say,  Miss  Perkins?  " 

"  Why,  she  said  that  she  could  make  a  better 
face  out  of  dough." 

Mrs.  Pendergrass  dropped  the  work  she  held 
in  her  hands.  Her  face  grew  red  as  scarlet. 
This  was  the  crowning  indignity.  All  the 
insulted  mother  in  her  rose  up  in  angry  indig 
nation.  "A  better  face  out  of  dough!"  No 


220  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

wonder  Mrs.  Pendergrass  was  "stirred  up,"  to 
use  her  own  words,  "  from  the  very  bottom." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Ruthy  Ann  Johnson  !  Very 
well,  madam  !  Very  kind  and  very  neighborly 
talk,  upon  my  word  !  " 

"I  wouldn't  be  excited  about  it,"  said  Miss 
Perkins,  in  her  quiet  way.  "  She's  talked  as 
bad  about  me ;  but  I  let  it  pass." 

"You  ain't  Maria  Pendergrass,"  was  the  mean 
ing  response.  "  A  better  face  out  of  dough  ! 
Give  me  patience  1  But  never  mind  —  I'll  have 
it  out  with  her ;  see  if  I  don't ! " 

"Ruthy  Ann  likes  to  talk,"  remarked  Miss 
Perkins,  making  an  effort  to  soothe  the  feelings 
she  had  spurred  into  excitement.  "  She's  a  little 
glib  with  her  tongue,  you  know,  and  is  always 
trying  to  say  smart  things.  I  heard  her  use 
them  very  same  words  about  Phoebe  Jenkins, 
not  six  weeks  gone  by.  Phoebe  is  dreadfully 
homely,  you  know,  and  has  no  more  expression 
in  her  face  than  a  turnip.  I  was  excessively 
amused,  and  have  laughed  over  it  a  dozen  times 
since.  I  think  she  was  only  talking  for  talk's 
sake  when  she  referred  to  Hester." 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  221 

"1  don't  care  what  she  was  talking  for,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Peudergrass,  sharply,  "  but  I  can  tell 
her  this  much,  she's  got  to  keep  her  glib  tongue 
off  of  me  and  mine.  Hester  is  as  good  looking 
as  any  of  her  brats.  Wait  till  I  see  her  !  " 

Miss  Perkins  tried  to  lay  the  storm  she  had 
raised ;  but  Mrs.  Pendergrass  was  touched  in  a 
very  tender  point.  She  had  received  a  wound 
which  no  words  of  the  mischief-making  gossip 
could  heal.  When  her  husband  came  home  at 
dinner-time,  she  told  him,  with  much  feeling, 
about  what  Mrs.  Johnson  had  said.  Mr.  Pen 
dergrass,  whose  temperament  was  as  different 
from  that  of  his  wife  as  December  is  from  June, 
treated  the  matter  very  indifferently. 

"  I  never  considered  our  Hester  much  of  a 
beauty,"  he  said.  "But  she's  a  good  girl,  which 
is  best  of  all.  As  to  her  being  ugly  as  sin, 
that  is  a  mere  extravagance  of  expression,  some 
times  indulged  in  by  thoughtless  people,  such  as 
Mrs.  Johnson.  It  amounts  to  nothing,  and  I 
would  let  it  pass  as  the  idle  wind." 

"Indeed,  and  I'll  not  let  it  pass,  then.  No 
body  has  a  right  to  talk  so  about  my  Hester. 


222  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

I  shall  tell  Ruthy  Ann  Johnson  a  piece  of  rny 
mind." 

"You'd  better  not,  Maria.  No  good  will  come 
of  it.  You'll  only  make  an  enemy  of  her,"  said 
Mr.  Pendergrass. 

"  I  don't  care  !  "  The  black  eyes  of  Mrs.  Pen 
dergrass  burned  like  coals  of  fire.  "  I'd  rather 
have  such  a  woman  for  my  enemy  than  my 
friend."  * 

"Never  make  an  enemy,  even  of  a  dog, 
Maria.  It  isn't  good  policy.  Enemies  are  al 
ways  dangerous." 

But  there  was  no  use  in  talking  to  Maria  Pen 
dergrass.  Passion  had  usurped  the  throne  of 
reason. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Mrs. 
Pendergrass  started  for  the  house  of  her  offend 
ing  neighbor,  a  woman  of  equal  spirit  with  her 
self.  Not  the  slightest  forewarning  had  Mrs. 
Johnson  of  the  intended  visit.  She  was  sitting 
with  her  basket  in  a  chair  by  her  side,  engaged 
in  the  important  work  of  darning  stockings, 
whon  Mrs.  Pendergrass  came  in  with  a  bustling, 
impressive  air,  and  a  face  of  no  very  mild 
aspect. 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  223 

"Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Pendergrass,"  said 
Mrs.  Johnson,  pleasantly,  rising  as  she  spoke ; 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  No,  you  ain't !  "  was  the  unexpected  answer 
to  this  cheerful  salutation. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Johnson,  stepping  back  a  pace  or  two, 
while  her  face  became  as  scarlet. 

"Just  what  I  say,"  was  replied.  "You  ain't 
glad  to  see  me,  you  mean  hypocrite ! " 

Mrs.  Peudergrass,  at  the  very  outset,  went 
quite  beyond  herself.  She  had  thought  over  all 
the  words  she  would  say,  and  they  were  to  be 
calmly  spoken,  but  wif'a  a  very  cutting  edge 
upon  them.  But  on  meeting  the  neighbor  who 
had  so  deeply  offended  her,  memory  and  self- 
possession  fled,  and  instead  of  asking,  as  she 
had  intended  doing,  whether  Mrs.  Johnson  had 
spoken  thus  and  so  about  her  daughter  Hester, 
she  weakly  and  foolishly  replied  with  insult  to  a 
kind  welcome. 

"  Let  me  be  what  I  am,  no  lady  would  use 
such  language  in  the  house  of  a  neighbor,"  sal1 
Mrs.  Johnson. 


224  THE    PEACEMAKER 

"  You  are  no  lady  !  Yon  —  you  —  hypo- 
crite  !  " 

Mrs.  Peudergrass  was  blind  with  passion. 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  a  large,  strong  woman, 
while  Mrs.  Pcndergrass  was  of  rather  diminu 
tive  stature.  Outraged  by  this  sudden,  and  for 
all  she  could  see,  wholly  unprovoked,  assault, 
the  former  advanced  suddenly  upon  her  violent 
neighbor,  and  grasping  her  firmly  by  one  of  her 
arms,  led  her  to  the  front  door,  and  thrusting 
her  out  into  the  yard,  said,  as  she  unclasped  her 
vice-like  hand,  — 

"  Don't  let  me  see  you  again  until  you  know 
how  to  behave  like  a  decent  woman."  And  the 
door  was  shut  in  her  face. 

Maria  Pendergrass  was  bewildered,  confound 
ed,  and  doubly  outraged  by  this  violent  assault 
upon  her  person;  exceeding,  as  it  did,  a  thou 
sand-fold,  in  her  estimation,  the  wrong  already 
inflicted  through  the  person  of  her  daughter. 
There  was  scarcely  any  wicked  thing  that  sr  j 
would  not  have  felt  inclined  to  do,  by  way 
of  retaliation,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  had 
the  opportunity  been  presented.  One  tempta- 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  225 

tioii  was,  to  throw  stones  and  break  her  neigh 
bor's  windows ;  another  was  to  kill  a  pet  lamb, 
that  happened  to  be  lying  on  the  grass-plat  be 
fore  the  door ;  and  another  was  to  trample  on  a 
flower-bed,  in  which  some  choice  and  valued 
plants  were  just  beginning  to  unfold  their  tender 
leaves  in  the  genial  sunshine. 

But  she  refrained ;  not  in  consequence  of  a 
preponderance  of  right  sentiments,  but  because 
the  act  would  too  feebly  express  her  great  indig 
nation. 

The  fiercer  the  tempest,  the  sooner  it  is  over. 
Violent  passions  quickly  exhaust  themselves. 
By  the  time  Mrs.  Pendergrass  reached  home, 
the  thermometer  of  her  feelings  had  lost  many 
degrees.  The  range  was  far  below  fever  heat. 

We  cannot  say  that  she  felt  particularly  well 
satisfied  with  her  own  performances  in  the  rather 
serious  comedy  at  Mrs.  Johnson's,  which  reached 
so  sudden  a  termination.  She  had  studied  her 
part  thoroughly,  but,  on  the  stage,  forgot  even 
the  opening  passages,  and  blundered  in  conse 
quence  most  terribly.  Instead  of  helping  mat 
ters  any,  she  had  made  them  ten  times  worse,  by 
15 


226  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

presenting  herself  as  an  assailant,  instead  of  one 
demanding  explanation  and  redress. 

"  I'm  glad  I  didn't  break  her  windows,  nor 
kill  her  pet  lamb,  nor  trample  on  her  flower 
bed  ! " 

Mrs.  Pendergrass  said  this  to  herself,  quite 
soberly,  as  she  sat  alone  in  her  room,  less  than 
half  an  hour  after  her  return  from  that  fruitless 
indignation  visit. 

"  Now,  haven't  I  gone  and  made  a  fool  of  my 
self?  "  she  added,  with  a  depressing  sense  of 
humiliation,  as  the  remembrance  of  what  she  had 
said  and  done  presented  itself  with  mortifying 
distinctness.  "What  must  Ruthy  Ann  Johnson 
think  of  me?  She'll  tell  her  husband,  of  course  ; 
and  he's  a  fiery,  hot-headed  little  whiffet,  and  will 
be  after  Pendergrass  for  explanation.  I'm  mad 
at  myself.  Why  didn't  I  talk  to  her  right?  I 
hud  it  all  laid  out ;  every  word  was  in  its  place. 
I'm  a  fool !  Maria  Pendergrass,  you  are  a  fool ! 
There  I  " 

Very  meekly  did  Maria  Pendergrass  bear  this 
self-denunciation ;  though,  had  anybody  else 
dared  to  express  a  similar  estimate  of  her  char- 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  227 

acter,  she  would  have  given  a  very  different  ex 
hibition  of  her  quality. 

"I  wish  Miss  Perkins  had  staid  at  home  and 
minded  her  own  business  !  " 

Ah  !  that  is  the  reward  your  tattling  mischief- 
maker  usually  receives  in  the  end,  even  from 
those  whose  ever-open  ears  invite  the  tale  of 
evil. 

"I've  heard  it  said  that  she  will  stretch  the 
truth,  and  it's  as  likely  as  not  that  she's  done  so 
in  this  case.  What  if  Mrs.  Johnson  never  said 
anything  of  the  kind?  Or  what  if  Miss  Perkins 
denies  having  told  me  ?  " 

These  were  sober  considerations. 

"  I've  put  my  foot  into  it,  and  no  mistake  ! " 

Rather  a  coarse  comparison,  Mrs.  Pcuder- 
grass,  but  forcible  and  true.  People  who  make 
indignation  visits  generally  do  that  thing.  Your 
experience  is  quite  up  to  the  average  of  such 
experiences. 

Mrs.  Pendergrass  could  not  summon  sufficient 
courage  to  speak  with  her  husband  about  the  ex 
citing  event  AN  hich  had  occurred.  She  meant  to 
do  so,  in  order  to  prepare  his  mind  for  a  return 


228  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

indignation  visit  from  Mr.  Johnson,  which  she 
was  very  certain  would  be  made  before  the  even 
ing  closed.  Momently,  from  the  time  he  came 
home  at  sundown  until  ten  o'clock  relieved  her 
anxious  suspense,  was  she  in  expectation  of  this 
visit  from  Mr.  Johnson. 

The  next  morning  found  Mrs.  Pendergrass  in 
rather  a  sober  state.  She  could  not  look  back 
upon  the  events  of  the  preceding  day  with  any 
feeling  of  self-approval.  Her  behavior  at  Mrs. 
Johnson's  was  certainly  of  an  extraordinary 
character,  as  was  also  the  treatment  which  she 
had  received.  Every  passing  hour  she  looked 
for  some  message  from  Mrs.  Johnson,  or  for  the 
visit  of  a  friendly  neighbor  to  inquire  about  the 
strange  stories  that  were  buzzing  through  the  vil 
lage.  But  the  entire  morning  passed  without  her 
seeing  a  living  soul  besides  her  own  family. 

As  for  Mrs.  Ruthy  Ann  Johnson,  the  subsi 
dence  of  her  disturbed  feelings  was  almost  as 
sudden  as  the  excitement  which  had  extin 
guished,  in  a  moment,  every  fraction  of  self- 
control.  When  she  grasped  the  arm  of  Mrs. 
Pendergrass,  and  thrust  her  violently  from  her 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  229 

house,  she  was  angry  beyond  measure.  When 
she  turned  back  from  the  shut  door,  and  sat 
down  by  the  basket  of  stockings  from  which  she 
had  started  away  on  being  so  roughly  assailed  by 
her  neighbor,  the  whirlwind  of  passion  was  over, 
and  l)o wing  her  face  upon  her  hands,  she  wept 
violently.  The  provocation  she  had  received  was 
great,  but  she  did  not  look  back  upon  it  in  any 
spirit  of  self-justification. 

The  afternoon  wore  away,  and  evening  brought 
the  return  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  husband.  She 
wished  to  talk  with  him  about  the  unpleasant 
affair,  but  he  was  an  excitable  and  not  very  wise 
little  man,  and  she  feared  to  trust  him  with  her 
version  of  the  story,  lest  he  should  do  some 
thing  that  would  only  make  matters  worse.  So 
she  had  to  bear  the  burden  of  unpleasant  thoughts 
alone. 

Like  Mrs.  Pendergrass,  she  passed  most  of 
the  next  day  in  a  condition  of  unhappy  suspense  ; 
every  moment  expecting  some  annoying  mes 
sage,  or  visit  in  company  with  interested  friends, 
from  the  neighbor  she  had  handled  so  roughly. 
She  did  not  go  out  to  see  any  one,  for  she  really 


230  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

felt  ashamed  to  look  a  neighbor  in  the  eyes,  aftef 
she  had  disgraced  herself  by  such  unwomanly 
conduct.  No  one  came  near  her  all  day,  and 
this  she  regarded  as  unmistakable  evidence  that 
Mrs.  Pendergrass  had  been  all  over  the  village, 
giving  her  version  of  the  story. 

The  third  day  brought  no  change  in  the  aspect 
of  things,  and  no  special  comfort  to  either  of 
the  unhappy  ladies.  Both  felt  disgraced  in  the 
eyes  of  their  neighbors,  and  each  was  angry  with 
the  other  for  having  provoked  her  to  unseemly 
anger. 

In  the  mean  time,  Miss  Perkins  was  gliding  in 
and  out  among  the  various  families  in  the  village, 
smooth  of  tongue,  insinuating,  yet  all-seeing  and 
all-hearing.  On  the  fourth  day,  Mrs.  Johnson's 
came  in  turn.  She  received  her  usual  welcome, 
but  soon  saw  that  her  friend  —  every  lady  in  the 
town  was  her  "friend" —  seemed  ill  at  ease,  and 
was  under  considerable  restraint.  Every  mo 
ment,  Mrs.  Johnson  expected  to  hear  some  ques 
tion  or  remark  on  the  subject  of  her  late  trouble 
with  Mrs.  Pendergrass.  But  not  the  slightest 
allusion  was  made  thereto.  This  was  strange. 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  231 

Mrs.  J.  could  not  understand  it.  What  had 
Mrs.  Pendergrass  said?  Something  very  dis 
creditable,  or  else  Miss  Perkins  would  not  be  so 
silent  on  the  subject  —  a  silence  evidently  meant 
to  save  her  feelings.  At  last,  unable  to  bear 
this  suspense  any  longer,  Mrs.  Johnson  deter 
mined  to  open  the  way  for  Miss  Perkins,  by 
.  saying,— 

"When  did  you  see  Maria  Pendergrass?" 

"Well,  let  me  think."  Miss  Perkins  spoke 
almost  indifferently.  "  It  is  now  three  or  four 
days,  I  believe,  since  I  was  there.  Yes,  now  I 
remember.  It's  just  four  days.  I  saw  her  on 
Tuesday." 

That  was  the  memorable  day  ! 

"  In  the  morning,  or  afternoon  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Johnson. 

"  It  was  in  the  morning.  WThy  do  you  ask  ?  " 
And  Miss  Perkins  looked  curiously  at  her  friend. 

Mrs.  Johnson's  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"  You  haven't  seen  her  since  ?  " 

Mrs.  Johnson  looked  up  with  a  more  confident 
manner. 

"  Not  since  ;  nor  have  I  heard  of  her  being  out 


232  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

anywhere,  which  is  a  little  curious,  now  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  for  she  goes  about  a  great  deals 
you  know.  As  Mrs.  Jenkins  says  of  her,  — 
*  She's  always  on  the  run.' " 

"  Maybe  phe's  sick,"  remarked  Mrs.  Johnson. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder ;  for  I  don't  know  of  any 
thing  but  sickness  that  would  keep  her  three 
days  in  the  house.  By  the  way,"  added  Miss 
Perkins,  smiling,  "  don't  you  remember  that  fun 
ny  speech  you  made  about  her  Hester  once  ?  " 

«  No;  what  was  it?" 

"  I've  laughed  about  it  a  hundred  times  since  ; 
it  was  so  ludicrous,  and  yet  so  true.  Hester, 
you  know,  is  as  homely  as  mud." 

"  She's  not  handsome,  certainly,"  replied  Mrs. 
Johnson.  "  But  she's  good ;  and  that  is  worth 
far  more  than  beauty." 

"Just  what  you  said,  afterwards,  to  take  the 
cutting  edge  off  your  funny  speech." 

"  What  was  the  speech  ?  I  have  entirely  for 
gotten  it." 

"  You  said  that  you  could  make  a  better  face 
out  of  dough.  Ha  !  ha  !  " 

"It  was  thoughtless   and  unkind,  and  by  no 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  233 

means  expressed  my  true  feelings  towards  the 
child.  Ludicrous  ideas  often  present  themselves 
to  my  mind,  and  I  have  the  bad  habit  of  clothing 
them  in  language  at  times  when  it  were  better 
to  be  silent." 

"  Somebody  who  heard  you  say  this  was  kind 
enough  to  tell  Mrs.  Pendergrass." 

"  O,  no  !  "  Mrs.  Johnson  looked  surprised 
and  grieved. 

"  It's  true ;  and  she  was  very  angry  about  it." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson.  "It 
was  thoughtless  in  me  to  make  the  remark,  but 
wicked  in  the  one  who  repeated  it." 

"  Wicked  and  malicious,"  replied  Miss  Per 
kins,  who  thus  thought  to  divert  all  suspicion 
from  herself. 

After  that,  conversation  flagged. 

"I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Pendergrass  is  sick?" 
MYS.  Johnson  had  been  silent  for  some  minutes, 
ai»u  the  remark  evidenced  considerable  interest. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Miss  Perkins. 

"  Suppose  we  call  over  and  see  her." 

To  this  Miss  Perkins  assented,  and  Mrs.  John 
son  made  herself  ready  with  particular  despatch. 


234  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

"How's  your  mother?"  Miss  Perkins  asked  < 
Hester,  who  opened  the  door  for  them. 

"  She's  right  well.     Won't  you  walk  in  ?  " 

You  may  be  sure  Mrs.  Pendergruss  started 
when  she  saw  them,  and  turned  all  manner  of 
colors.  Mrs.  Johnson,  as  she  advanced  towards 
her,  said,  — 

"Will  you  answer  me  a  question,  Mrs.  Pen- 
dergrass?"  She  spoke  calmly  and  respectfully. 

"  Certainly  :  say  on  ;  "  was  answered,  with 
some  little  show  of  offended  personal  dignity. 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  had  spoken  unkindly  of 
your  daughter  ?  " 

"  Miss  Perkins,"  was  the  firm  answer. 

"  O,  no  —  no,  Mrs.  Pendergrass  ;  you  forget. 
It  wasn't  me;  you  forget."  Miss  Perkins  was 
all  in  a  flutter. 

"Not  at  all.  My  memory  is  very  clear  on  the 
subject.  You  were  my  informant,  and  nobody 
else." 

"What  did  she  say?"  inquired  Mrs.  Johnson. 

"  Why,  that  you  said  my  Hester  was  as  ugly 
as  sin." 

"I  never  used  the  language,  nor  anything  like 
it,"  was  positively  answered. 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  235 

"O,  but  Mrs.  Johnson,  did  you  not  say  that, 
you  could  make  —  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Perkins,  I  did  utter  that  thought 
less,  silly  speech ;  I  regretted  it  in  a  moment 
afterwards.  And  I  also  said  that  she  was  good, 
and  that  was  best  of  all.  Did  you  tell  that, 
also?" 

"  No,  Mrs.  Johnson,  she  did  not,  evil  mischief- 
maker  that  she  is ! "  said  Mrs.  Pendergrass,  ris 
ing,  and  extending  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Johnson  grasped  it,  and  replied,  — 

"  Forgive  my  foolish  speech,  that  had  in  it  no 
real  meaning,  and  would  have  done  no  harm  if 
there  had  been  no  evil  tongue  to  bear  it  to  your 
ears." 

"  And  forgive  my  hasty  words,  uttered  in 
blind  passion,"  said  Mrs.  Pendergrass.  "  I  hav<s 
been  sufficiently  punished." 

"  And  so  have  I.  As  for  your  Hester,  I  have 
always  liked  her  ;  and  have  said,  many  and  many 
a  time,  as  Miss  Perkins  well  knows,  for  I  have 
said  it  to  her,  that  I  wished  my  Ruthy  was  as 
thoughtful  of  her  mother,  and  as  kind  among  hey 
brothers  and  sisters.  As  to  good  looVs,  I  don't 


236  THE     PEACEMAKER. 

think  there  is  anything  to  boast  of  on  my  sido 
of  the  house.  Ruthy  is  plain  enough,  I  am  sure  ; 
and  if  you  couldn't  make  as  good  a  face  out  of 
putty,  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  your  skill." 

A  gleam  of  kind  feeling  threw  its  warm  rays 
over  the  flushed  countenance  of  Maria  Fender- 
grass.  The  outraged  mother  was  fully  satisfied. 
She  saw  that  neither  ill  will  nor  contempt  had 
darkened  the  mind  of  her  neighbor,  who  had,  as 
every  one  knew,  "  a  funny  way  of  speaking " 
sometimes,  but  meant  no  harm,  and  was  a  true 
woman  at  heart. 

In  a  few  moments,  a  change  came  over  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Pendergrass,  as  her  thoughts  took 
a  new  direction.  A  sudden  fire  flashed  in  her 
small,  black  eyes ;  her  brows  fell,  and  her  flexi 
ble  lips  took  a  firm,  angry  curve.  Turning  to 
the  astonished  and  confused  Miss  Perkins,  she 
said,  sharply,  — 

"And  now,  my  lady,  you  shall  have  a  piece 
of  my  mind! — you  tattling,  mischief-making, 
wicked  —  " 

Mrs.  Pendergrass  was  losing  herself,  and 
would  have  gone  quite  passion-blind  agnin,  had 


AN    INDIGNATION     VISIT.  231 

V 
not  Mrs.  Johnson  laid  a  hand  firmly  upon  her 

arm,  and  said,  — 

"  Maria  !  Maria  Pendergrass  !  Don't  waste 
words  on  her.  She  isn't  worth  a  decent  woman's 
indignation !  " 

She  grasped  her  neighbor  just  in  time,  as  a 
drowning  man  is  sometimes  caught  and  saved  at 
the  last  instant  of  immersion,  and  drew  her  back 
to  the  dry  ground  of  reason  and  self-possession. 

« Eight,  Kuthy  Ann.  Right.  Thank  you 
for  the  timely  words."  And  Mrs.  Pendergrass 
caught  her  breath,  like  one  who  had  been  on 
the  verge  of  suffocation.  "I  must  say  this,  how 
ever  ;  "  and  she  turned  again  to  Miss  Perkins. 

"  Don't  darken  my  door  again.  You  have 
done  so  once  too  often." 

Miss  Perkins  arose,  and,  turning  meekly  away, 
retired  slowly,  and  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
been  deeply  injured. 

**  The  sneaking  hypocrite  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Pendergrass. 

"I  would  have  liked  her  better  if  she  had 
shown  fire  and  fight,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  But 
your  secret  detractors  are  always  spiritless  cow- 


238  THE    PEACEMAKER. 

ards.  Let  her  go  !  She  is  not  worth,  as  I  have 
said,  a  decent  woman's  indignation;  and  I  am 
vexed  when  I  think  that  her  smooth  tongue  and 
false  heart  were  able  to  arouse  into  such  angry 
turbulence  the  feelings  of  two  women  who  had 
been  friends  from  girlhood  up  to  middle  life. 
And  now,  Maria,  if  you  hear  of  any  more  of  my 
foolish  speeches,  come  to  me  in  all  friendly 
frankness ;  not  as  you  did  —  " 

"Don't  fear  another  indignation  visit,  Ruthy 
Ann !  "  said  Mrs.  Pendergrass,  interrupting  her 
neighbor.  "  I'll  never  make  such  a  fool  of  my 
self  again  —  never !  " 

"  Have  you  spoken  of  it  to  any  one  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Johnson,  a  little  gravely. 

«  No ;  have  you  ?  " 

"  Not  even  to  my  husband.  I  was  too  much 
ashamed  of  myself." 

"Good!"  said  Mrs.  Pendergrass;  "it  is  our 
own  secret." 

"And  our  own  it  must  remain.  By  its  mem~ 
ory  we  will  be  faster  friends." 

Many  a  good  laugh  had  they  afterwards  to 
themselves,  about  the  skill  of  Mrs.  Johnson  in 


AN    INDIGNATION    VISIT.  239 

making  faces  out  of  dough  and  putty,  and  over 
that  ludicrous  indignation  meeting,  which  both 
had  the  good  sense  to  forgive,  and  the  humor  to 
enjoy. 

They  were  friends,  though  within  an  ace  of 
being  made  enemies  for  life,  as  thousands  are 
made,  by  thoughtless  words,  too  freely,  yet  in 
nocently,  spoken.  It  is  the  tattler  who  is  the 
real  social  criminal.  Her  offence  is  capital,  and 
there  should  be  no  reprieve. 


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